


Further Away

by amanounmei



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind, Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 17
Words: 50,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amanounmei/pseuds/amanounmei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Oblivion Crisis has ended, the mortals of Tamriel triumphant. However, there were many whose lives would never be the same again. And not everyone accepted it that way.</p><p>(A cross between Oblivion and post-Crisis Morrowind.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. After He Fell

The Third Era has ended.

The Empire was once again safe. The invasion from the daedric realm of Oblivion has been stopped, and the barriers between the two worlds are now guarded not by fires, but by the Divine dragon Akatosh himself. The threat gone, the faces happy.

But such a victory does not come without a price.

The Empire was also troubled. Along with the sacrifice of the great hero, Martin Septim, the royal dynasty perished. There was no one to sit upon the Dragonthrone... as there was no Dragonborn. No one knew what would befall the land. How were they to choose a new Emperor?

Finally, the answer came. As was loudly heralded by the "Black Horse Courier", High Chancellor Ocato - much to the surprise of all his people - proclaimed himself Emperor of Tamriel. He was to be crowned in just a few days. Rumours arouse almost instantly. People murmured among themselves about how the Elder Council disagreed, not wishing to give the Imperial Dragonthrone to just any elf, but their minds changed after bribes, threats and even torture. Of course, there were some who followed Ocato almost blindly.

This Nord was not one of them. With his long, dark brown hair and same eyes he would be just a face in the crowd of his race, a Nord like any other, if not for his somewhat thin face and a name that did not fit his kind.

Anthir. He never really wondered why his mother named him that. Perhaps it had something to do with his father, whom he never knew, but it never really bothered him. He came to Cyrodiil from Vvardenfell, the huge island north in dark elven Morrowind. He rarely spoke of his past, and if he did, the story was incomplete, full of holes and hidden chapters. But he had reasons to hide them.

Anthir came to Cyrodiil to start anew, to try and forget about his past. He did what had to be done, and wanted to take his life in his own hands.

That was not exactly what he found. A new face, a different man - yet, by the same force that pushed him forth on Vvardenfeel, he got to know the great hero, Martin, when he was but a humble priest of Akatosh. Accompanied him throughout the entire Oblivion invasion, from the tragic siege of Kvatch to the victory in the capital.

And during that time, Anthir's greatest secret was born. It took a while, growing in him slowly, emerging like a river during heavy rains, higher and higher... But although it eventually grew intense, and unnervingly painful, he did not say a word about it to anyone. Not even to those few he trusted blindly with his life.

He loved Martin.

But Martin Septim was now dead. Sacrificed to call down Akatosh and banish Mehrunes Dagon, the Prince of Destruction, back to his plane in Oblivion. Anthir's heart bled. The Emperor never knew, and would never know...

A desperate, seemingly foolish and definitely impossible plan was born. With a racing heart and a mind focused on but one thing, Anthir decided that there may yet be hope for Martin. If he was not simply dead, but ascended to live among the gods like Tiber Septim once was, it seemed possible to bring him back.

The Dwemer nearly succeeded in creating a god.

Anthir had no idea how to do what the Dwemer aimed to do. But he knew who would know. His next goal was to go to a place he wanted to leave behind, to a past he wished never to return to.

Funny what things love makes you do.

There was one thing he would need before leaving Cyrodiil. There was no telling if he would ever return, so best take care of it while he is still here. Back then, during the siege of the Imperial City, when Mehrunes Dagon himself walked the land, Anthir's mind would not notice a small yet amazingly important detail. Now, months after that day, his sub-consciousness reminded him that it has indeed been there...

A shard of the Amulet of Kings.

It seemed to be the key to Martin's resurrection. It seemed _possible_.

 

Anthir was now standing before the closed gate of Cloud Ruler Temple, an ancient, seemingly Akaviri by architecture, fortress of his brethren, the Blades. The ornate wooden gate has not been opened even once since the sacrifice of Martin Septim. It was silent, overwhelmingly empty, still bearing memories of what happened here during the crisis... memories of Martin...

The snow fell, carried on by icy winds, onto a simple, plain gravestone on which Anthir's eyes were focused. The carefully carved letters formed a name this Nord would never forget, name of a man he has known briefly but well and whom he came to respect and look up to.

Jauffre.

Anthir reached out with a gloved hand and wiped away some of the snow that covered the gravestone, ignoring the soft neighs of his horse. A shard of the Amulet awaited, taken by unworthy hands of Ocato who dared proclaim himself Emperor. Only Emperors of the dragon blood, blessed by Akatosh, were able to wear the Amulet of Kings.

Ocato was not a Dragonborn.

Stealing the Amulet would be high treason, Anthir told himself. But if he used it to bring back a real Emperor, one of the Septim blood? If he gave it back to its rightful owner?

He looked down at Jauffre's grave, and then up to the skies, thinking of the great Dragon God...

"I hope you can forgive me..." he said out loud.

He then swiftly mounted his horse and sped southward. There was much to be done, and he did not know if he was able to bring it to an end... but he will try.

There will be a Dragonborn.

The one he so longed to see.


	2. Desperate Plans

The plan quickly formed in his mind as he returned to his small house in Cheydinhal, and hastily started packing up. He did it once, he can do it again, he told himself as he wrapped a purplish, faintly glowing crystal orb in a piece of dirty cloth and tossed it into his bag. He will need help, but help of someone who most likely would not deny it.

Anvil was not a big city, exceeded in size by many in Tamriel, but an important port of Cyrodiil. With his black steed stabled outside, Anthir headed directly toward the majestic castle that towered over the city. Dressed in a simple black robe, he did not seem to be prepared to speak to the head of Anvil.

But he was not denied an audience. Count and Countess Umbranox greeted him with broad, sincere smiles as he bowed.

"What brings you to us, friend?" Millona asked.

"I came to ask for help," Anthir said, his face a blank mask. The look he gave the rulers instantly affected them, making them exchange brief, concerned stares. The Nord's eyes were focused on the Count, as if trying to tell him something.

"Speak, then," Corvus said, slightly narrowing his eyes.

Anthir shook his head. "Not here, my Lord," he said, only increasing the Countess' concern, so visible on her handsome face. "Alone, if we may."

Corvus looked at his wife somewhat apologetically and nodded at the guest. He then stood up from his seat and led Anthir up a wide staircase and through a number of corridors. They walked on a symbolical red carpet, and all around them woven drapes told stories from the history and legends of the Empire. Anthir recognized a number of them as those marked by Azura with a moon and a star.

Corvus had no idea what they mean to him.

The two of them entered a lavishly decorated bedroom. It had everything suitable for the Count and his wife, including a big, soft bed with crimson curtains. Corvus closed the door behind them and sat in a highback chair by a table, motioning for Anthir to do the same.

"So," he said after a moment's silence "what is it you need?"

In response, the Nord reached into his bag. He took out a small ball of folded dirty cloth which made the Count raise an eyebrow. A loose edge of the wrapping revealed a light shade of purple on a faintly glowing, crystal edge.

Corvus held a gasp.

"Scrying," Anthir finally said.

The other man eyed him and the orb carefully before replying: "If you want to steal something, go ahead, but I can't get involved, I promised Millona-"

"You won't get involved," the Nord cut in calmly. "I'm not asking you to come with me... I just need some information."

Corvus sighed and took the bundle of cloth, unwrapping it to stare at the crystal with mesmerized eyes. "Savilla's Stone..." he muttered. "I never thought I'd see it again..." He looked back up at the other man and sighed again. "Very well, I'll do it."

Anthir bared his teeth in a relieved smile. "Thank you, my friend, I knew I could count on you..."

"Just don't tell Millona." Corvus could not help but return the smile. "What information do you need?"

Anthir sat back in his chair, his face suddenly very serious. The Count wrapped Savilla's Stone back in the dirty cloth, awaiting explanation.

"Ocato," the Nord finally said, making the other pause for a fraction of a second. "He has something I need. A shard of... a red crystal."

Corvus nodded in acknowledgment, leaning sideways over the table to support his chin on one arm. Anthir went on: "I need you to locate it for me. Find out everything related to it - where will I find the shard, where will I find Ocato, how can I get in, out..."

"I will," the Count assured him. "But you must give me some time."

"Of course."

"Stay in the city", Corvus suggested. "I will send word as soon as I have the information."

Anthir stood up from his chair. "Yes," he said with a grateful smile. "Thank you..."

The Count returned the smile. "You owe me nothing. Now go." After a moment of hesitation, he added: "Shadow hide you."

 

The inn had comfortable rooms, but they were not at all like Anthir's own house in Cheydinhal. They felt more cramped than they actually were, and the humble furniture seemed even more raw and simple. To avoid the uneasy feelings, Anthir spent most of his time at the waterfront or the coast outside Anvil, staring out into the distant horizon beyond the calm waters. He tried to occupy himself with anything, just to get his mind off Martin, but nothing worked. He could not forget.

A few days passed with a simple routine. Anthir ate a very simple breakfast at the inn, not saying much and looking around almost longingly; then just left to wander somewhere all day and returned to eat a richer meal after sundown. People in the inn started muttering among themselves each time he sat at a table, and their voices grew louder once he got out of earshot.

Finally, nearly seven days after his visit at the castle, the awaited moment came. As Anthir ate his morning meal - nothing more than bread, cheese and some Nordic mead - an armed guard came in. Everybody's eyes turned to him and it seemed that everyone drew breaths, as if worried they will be taken away. Much to their relief, the guard ignored them all and without a word he headed straight for the furthest corner where Anthir sat.

He nodded his head slightly.

The Nord returned the nod from over his mug of mead.

"The Count wishes to speak to you," the guard said. Saying nothing, Anthir stood up, tossed a small sack of coins to the barman and followed the armed man out. As they left, they could hear murmurs and mutters growing louder. Surely the people had a lot to gossip about...

Corvus Umbranox awaited, but this time not in his royal bedroom, but in a relatively small study. Bookcases with seemingly a hundred of books stood by the walls, covering every inch of the surface. Aside of them there was only a table and a wooden desk, at which the Count now sat. He smiled as he saw Anthir approach and sit down in a free chair. The guard closed the door behind them.

"I have the information," Corvus said without unnecessary greetings.

His guest smiled slightly, but still said nothing.

"I've seen the shard," the Count went on, leaning on the desk. "Ocato keeps it locked away in a box. He never opens it, so it doesn't seem like anyone knows it even exists, whatever it is."

Anthir nodded. Not wishing to say too much about the mysterious object he wanted so much, he only asked: "Where does he keep the box?"

"In his bedroom," Corvus stated simply. "Top floor of the palace. But the problem is the lock..." As his guest raised an eyebrow, he quickly explained: "The Stone didn't reveal it all. But it seems to be somewhat altered, distorting my view..."

"Probably magical," Anthir said matter-of-factly. Corvus nodded in agreement. "I would imagine he'd keep it safe," the Nord added, more to himself.

Wondering if he could ask more questions about the enigmatic shard, the Count said: "I am guessing Ocato has a special key to it. He would keep it with himself, as far as I know him."

"Yes, a key..." Anthir muttered. "Or a spell. In that case, I won't be able to open it."

"Will you try anyway?"

"Of course I will," the Nord smirked. "I wouldn't be myself if I gave up."

Corvus nodded again, a smile on his face. "One more problem remains. The way..."

"... through the sewers is locked," Anthir finished for him. "I know. I thought about it. The guards won't throw me out of the Imperial Palace."

"You'll have to stay overnight."

"Easily done. I have a plan."

The Count handed Savilla's Stone to his guest. It was once against wrapped, but this time the piece of cloth was much cleaner and folded very carefully, as if the person that did this found this artifact almost sacred. Anthir took it and put it in his bag, giving it a round shape and the look of something stuffed to the limit.

"You realize," Corvus began slowly "that if you're caught, it won't matter what you did for Martin Septim..."

The Nord winced slightly at the sound of that name, but nodded. "Of course I realize. That's why it won't be me who will steal that shard."

Corvus Umbranox blinked. Then again. And then, finally, his lips curved into a wide, almost sinister grin.


	3. The Heist

The plan to stay overnight in the palace was simple and surprisingly good. Anthir decided to risk using his trust among the Elder Council and called a session related to the election of the new, already crowned Emperor. Much to his relief - and a slight surprise - the Council agreed and in a matter of days they all were in the center, round chamber of the Imperial Palace.

Representatives of each county in Cyrodiil were seated in the round council chamber. Much to Anthir's surprise, and somewhat disappointment, lady Millona Umbranox came in her husband's stead, as a reason giving some illness. As much as he wished for Corvus to be there, Anthir knew that the Count cannot risk being around during the heist. The Council took place without him.

Anthir's heart raced as he spoke his mind about the crowning of Ocato. He did his best to be polite, as it would do him no good to have an enemy in the new Emperor, but his disgust was clear to everyone around him. This triggered a heated, yet polite discussion about who should seat on the throne now that the Septim line is gone. Every Count and Countess, one by one, voiced their thoughts, but only Millona Umbranox was bold enough to openly agree with Anthir. Her counterpart, Count Indarys of Cheydinhal, was even bolder to call her a betrayer of the new Emperor. Anthir himself sat silent most of the time after his initial speech, only adding salt to wounds of each and every one of the Council to prolong the meeting.

His efforts, however painful it was to hear what they spoke of the Septims, were not in vain. The Council session closed shortly before sundown and Anthir was given a room for the night, so he could rest before returning home the next morning. Grateful beyond words, and not even acting, he locked the door behind himself and waited for the right moment.

The plan was working.

 

He lingered in his chamber until the moon was high up. It was not long past midnight - he could not delay the heist much longer, as he could not foresee how much time would he actually need. During his wait, he prepared everything he would need. He did his best to take only the items he most needed, but some had to go along for cover when he acted a politician in the session. Thus his katana would have to remain in the room, along with a few other things. But it would not matter. He was to return to the chamber before sunrise.

He reviewed the items once again. The skeleton key, gift from the Daedra Lord Nocturnal herself, an unbreakable lockpick that would allow him to pass through every door and search every chest. If only Nocturnal knew who now possessed this unique gift... He grinned to himself. Next, there was a small, enchanted dagger he obtained seemingly ages ago. He stuffed it into his boot, so that it could not be seen. He also took a unique sword, very special to him, which he sheathed and tied to his belt. The clothes he chose for himself were the only ones that seemed suitable for this task - a simple, purely black robe only few could recognize as one blessed by Sithis. It was very light, not hindering his movements at all, and perfectly blending with the shadows.

Then there was the key item - the cowl.

It did not match the black robes at all. Sewn of rough leather, it was gray and worn, the stitches clearly visible. The only thing that distinguished it from other leather cowls was a stripe of faintly glowing Daedric runes running through the center, from neck to eyes. Anthir stared at it for a brief moment before putting it on.

And the Gray Fox left the chamber.

The Council let him stay two floors below the top one, meaning he was only two levels away from Ocato. Outside his chambers, there were no guards, but he sensed something pulse several feet to his right, behind the curved walls. A guard was approaching. As silently as he could, the Fox took a few steps forward and hugged the opposite wall. The inner walls of the circular palace were adorned with columns which partially sheltered him from torchlight. The man flattened himself against one of those columns as the guard walked past. The moment he disappeared on the other side, the Fox hurried in the opposite direction, keeping as close to the inner wall as he could without slowing himself down.

At the end of the corridor there were doors. The man knelt by the handle and started hastily manoeuvring inside the lock with his Daedric key. He sensed the patrolling guard head back his way a moment before he heard the silent, yet heavy footsteps. He wished to speed up, but the more he rushed, the more difficult it would be to unlock the door. Finally, he heard a slightly louder click and the door stood open before him. He slipped through them and closed them behind himself; then he paused, sensing that the guard stopped on the other side and then turned back to go the other way yet again.

With a sigh of relief, the Gray Fox made his way along the round corridor once more. He was now a level higher, so only one more door and he is on the top floor. This time bypassing the guard assigned to patrolling this level was much easier - the man simply fell asleep. Grinning to himself, the thief walked past and unlocked the door that led him to the topmost floor.

Finding Ocato's private chambers proved far easier than he expected it to be. Although he saw more than one door, only one were suitable enough for rulers - huge, double and decorated with the Septim crest carved in the wood.

But why where there no guards nearby?

This was no time to wonder about it. The Fox sneaked towards the ornate door, just in case someone might hear after all, and swiftly picked the lock. The wood creaked silently as he pushed it open, but it did not seem to alarm anyone. The man entered.

The chambers were completely dark, save for the moonlight that came from the huge window and illuminated the center part. A table, few huge bookcases, drawers... Ocato must be sleeping in the next room. But, just to make sure, the Fox silently scoured this part to check for anything that might be a magically sealed box.

Much to his surprise, he came by it pretty quickly, and soon held it in his hands. It was rather small, fitting in two open palms, carved in dark wood and decorated with golden ornaments. The lock seemed perfectly normal, but as soon as the man inserted the skeleton key into it, the artifact refused to move. He could only pull it out, but the box would not open. Either a spell, or a special key.

He had no choice but to check the other room. Corvus was right, if there is a key, Ocato keeps it with himself at all times. He laid peacefully in his imperial bed, on his side, the curtains loose as if he was expecting a lover. The Fox walked over to him slower than before, very careful not to wake the slumbering Altmer. His heart beat fast as he pulled the covers down a bit. This was very risky, but he had no other choice. Gathering all his willpower to stop his hands from trembling, he reached to Ocato's waist and started carefully scavenging for anything that would resemble a key.

He froze as the Altmer grunted something. But, to the Fox's unending relief, he did not wake. The thief slowly pulled his hands back - on one gloved finger hung a small silver key.

The man withdrew to the other chamber, closing the bedroom door behind himself. Only halfly believing he managed this, he inserted the key into the lock of the magical box.

It clicked open.

Inside, the box was stuffed with crimson silk, suitable to hold something of great value. Of course it would be... the item it hid was more valuable than anyone could imagine. The Fox was not exactly sure what to expect, but what he saw assured him he was right all along. The shard he sought was actually an entire side of the Amulet of Kings - its golden edge with four small gems, now slightly scratched, and a fragment of the biggest, scarlet gem. The crystal that resembled the blood of Akatosh was hollow, as if something that should have been in there was gone since the shattering of the Amulet.

Perhaps the blood really was there...

This was no time to ponder this. The Gray Fox stuffed the shard into a pocket and closed the box to set it back in its place. He closed it and placed the key in a dark corner. As carefully as before, he left Ocato's private chambers, intended on returning to his own.

That moment everything went wrong.

He heard voices coming from the direction of the door that would lead him down, and soon sensed the pulsing of incoming guards. More than one... three, by the looks of it. Cursing inwardly, the Fox fled to a far corner, away from the door, to try and hide from the shadows. Either these were the guards assigned to this level and he miraculously chose the moment when they were not around, or someone suspected something. Maybe they have seen him?

The three armed men approached the door. Praying that they would not check the lock, the thief watched them settle themselves by the ornate door and turn towards the inner wall. Moving past them would prove far more difficult. He decided to use an illusion, the last resort he refused to turn to for help during heists; what honour is there in stealing when you are invisible?

But before he managed to finish the spell, one guard turned to him and growled.

"You!" he called and immediately the other two turned to the thief. "You should not be here!"

Another guard called even louder: "The Gray Fox! Sound the alarm!"

The thief hissed and stormed past them, dive-rolling forward to avoid blades that attempted to slice him as he went. Cursing over and over in his mind, the Fox stormed to the door and beyond. His sword clashed against his thigh when he ran as fast as his legs would take him, towards anything that could serve as an exit. Once he is out of the palace and removes the Cowl, no one will even dare to suspect the Nord Anthir of breaking into the royal chambers. Maybe it is not that bad that they saw him.

But first he has to get out.

Right now the Gray Fox was very grateful to himself for choosing such light robes. The guards fell behind, yet the heavy clashes of their iron armours and foots against the floor must have waken the entire palace by now. They were already two floors lower and the patrolling guards joined the pursuit.

There was no way he could get out of there... unless...

_I must be mad to try this_ , he thought as he suddenly stopped and turned to face a window.

"Stop right there, Gray Fox!"

_You wish..._ he thought as he swung his sheathed sword at the window. The ornate glass shattered and fell, smaller pieces scattered and taken by the cool night winds. Before the guards reached him, the thief was already on the window's other side, hanging at the wall only thanks to its many carvings. Inwardly thanking the Ayleids for carving so many figures and ornaments on the walls, he started to descend carefully. Above, the guards started shouting for aid and some of them ran, most likely to wait for him on the ground. They would surely reach it before him.

If only he could find some bushes in which he could remove the Cowl...

His foot slipped.

With a sharp hiss he attempted to grab anything he could as he fell. But nothing proved suitable, as his hands kept slipping off anything he clung to, only slowing him down and not stopping the fall.

He hit the ground with a hard thud.

He could not tell how long it took him to put himself together. When the world finally stopped whirling and blinking before his eyes, he supported himself on his arms and immediately fell back, hissing. His left arm stung with unbearable pain. Breathing heavily, he brought his right hand to it and concentrated what was left of his willpower to try and mend the broken bones.

Heavy footsteps nearby made him sweat with fear. The guards were nearing, surely looking for him. If they found him, even without the Cowl on, they would search and question him, and all the effort would have been in vein. Perhaps it was not that good that he was seen... Biting his lower lip to muffle a groan, he pulled himself up to his feet, his left arm hanging limply. He then sneaked to a nearby bunch of bushes, just in time to avoid the eyes and torchlight of pursuing guards. With a deep sigh of relief, and the pain bringing tears to his eyes, he carefully removed the Cowl and headed away from the palace.

He succeeded. The guards would spread word that it was the Gray Fox who broke into the palace, not Anthir who was now leaving its grounds. No one would dare suspect him.

But, even though he avoided justice, Anthir now had to leave Cyrodiil.


	4. Moon-And-Star

He got home with little trouble from the people. No one even considered him suspicious, but the people muttered and whispered to one another. _Rumours spread quickly_ , Anthir thought as he dismounted and led his horse to the city stables. The only problem was his arm. It stung like seven hells, but he was in no shape to mend it himself. The pain made it impossible to concentrate spells, and asking a priest or any other healer for aid would make them ask questions.

And as soon as the people heard his arm was broken, they would mutter about the Gray Fox's fall.

The copy of the Black Horse Courier he had delivered to his doorstep spoke of a break-in to the Imperial Palace. Second this year, and second at all. No one dared before, but this time the Gray Fox has been seen. Blah blah blah. No mention about what went missing, though. Surely Ocato wants it kept secret.

That figures.

Time has come for him to return to a past he wanted forgotten. Answers to his questions and solutions to his problems laid in Morrowind, back where it all began. Hissing each time he moved or strained the broken arm, he started packing. Due to his injuries it took a lot longer than he hoped it would, but there was no helping it. He only hated the idea of having his bones mend wrongly because of no medical intervention. But he'd have to live with it. Maybe someone in Morrowind will help.

Weapons. Yes, he will need weapons. The ceremonial katana of the Blades can rest in his house; he will need something stronger than that. The sword he had by his side right now would be more than fine. And the dagger in his boot, too. His two most precious blades... Quiver, arrows, bow. Not the best quality, as he was a poor marksman, but they could come in handy. Right. Armour. The light robes of Sithis' Black Hand of course had to go in case he needed to be discrete. The heavier set, however, he would wear on the way to try and decrease the number of heavy bags he would have to drag along. Yes, that worked, or at least seemed like it will work.

There was also a long, lightly coloured robe - it was cream white, with a long yellow stripe to be placed around the shoulders and attached by the belt for sheer looks. No one in Cyrodiil knew about this robe, and Anthir was not keen on telling anyone. It had no meaning here. It had a huge meaning in Morrowind, though.

And of course the Cowl went, along with Savilla's Stone.

Right, on with it. He wrapped each of his delicate alchemy instruments in cloth and packed them up together, placing smaller satchels of herbs in between them, hoping not to damage anything as he goes. He could get new ones if need be, but he grew fond of this particular set. It was good quality. Along with raw ingredients, he packed a set of potions. Most of them were just healing ones, unfortunately not strong enough to mend bones as damaged as those in his arm, and a wide variety of poisons.

He might need them later on.

What more... Books? What good would books be? Food. Yes, food, of the type that will not rot. He will most likely need to restock on the way, but with his pouch as full as it was, he could manage. The skeleton key, his precious unbreakable lockpick, was safe in one of his deeper pockets close to his body so that he could always feel it was there. There was also the brass medal shaped like a star with many thin arms, a gift from Lord Azura whom he grew to consider his second mother. No one in Cyrodiil could possibly know, nor understand, why. But he was now heading for a land where everyone will know, and everyone will understand.

He had it all. All he needed now was a small, delicate ring. It was purely white, with a small star engulfed by a crescent moon. He put it on and stared at it for a long moment. In Cyrodiil, in the province he called his home, no one would even think about it.

In Morrowind, it was the symbol of a prophecy and a painful past of blood and betrayal.

Jolly.

 

 

Considering he packed everything he is going to need, Anthir sat down at his working desk. There was one more matter that needed his attention, and although he was not sure if his solution is the good one, he had little choice. With his plan at this stage, he could not stay in the province for much longer.

He took a piece of slightly ragged parchment, dipped a quill in the inkwell by his side and started to write.

 

_Speaker,_

_I write this to inform you that I will be away. Pressing matters demand my attention, and I cannot tell when I will be able to return. Fear not for me, and carry out the will of Sithis. The Dread Father knows of my plans, and I am certain the Night Mother shall pass her whispers onto you nonetheless. I leave the family under your guidance and protection, and I trust you will not fail me._

_Listener._

 

This sounded well enough, Anthir concluded as he reread the note. He then carefully dried the ink with a piece of cloth, managing not to blur any words. When that was done, he scrolled the parchment and picked up the closest candle that stood by his side. It was white, but had to do. He bound the scroll with white wax, without any seal.

As the only seal he had was of moon and star.

 

 

Morning greeted the people of Cheydinhal as they roamed the streets with smiles on their faces. No one noticed that the well behind an old, abandoned house creaked as someone opened its rusty bars and climbed out of the well. Even the quiet clashes of the plates of his armour did not attract attention as he headed for the gate.

His faithful steed waited in the stables, Anthir's bags already attached to the saddle. He took her reins and, giving Cheydinhal one last glance, climbed into the saddle and sped eastward.

 

 

Morrowind felt alien.

Anthir hardly noticed when he crossed the border. He rode through hills and wild forests, accompanied by somewhat chilly winds and singing birds. But the calm and joyful atmosphere soon changed. The woodland flora became more swampy, with its giant mushrooms, moss and weeds. Even the air felt heavier. The Nord could not recall ever hearing any birds in these areas. Now, around him there were only grumbles and grunts of wild guars and the distant screeching of cliff racers somewhere above. He felt oddly isolated, endangered, unwelcome...

Morrowind was no longer his home.

He pulled the reins and directed his horse off the beaten tracks. For some odd reason, unsure even to him, he would like to remain unseen as long as was possible. Somehow the thought of citizens - be they Dunmer, Imperial or other - noticing him was far from appealing. Hard branches of the trees hit him as he stormed through, hooves of his horse splashing the shallow marsh water. He only stopped to allow his steed to rest, carefully choosing her food as the grasses of Morrowind often proved deadly, and only then did he eat, hardly ever sleeping. If he did sleep, it was mostly in the saddle, as he trusted the horse to find her own way east. Once in a while he had to turn rather abruptly when the stars told him he was going the wrong way, and his tiredness weakened him as much as his growing hunger. But no matter, he told himself, he will rest when he reaches the coast.

With his journey as intense as it was, he reached the shores quite quickly. As soon as he reached the huge wooden gates of a port city he could not even name, the Dunmer guards eyed him carefully. With the special robe deep in a bag and the white ring covered by a plate glove, they could not know whom he was. They only nodded, letting him pass. Most of the other dark elven citizens acted similarly, either only giving him polite nods, angered growls or ignoring him completely. The Imperial guards seemed to watch him closer, clearly alert. Must be because there is no Emperor and nearly all provinces think of withdrawing from the Empire... Of course. Things are never this easy.

As much as he wanted to rest, with his eyes and all limbs refusing to cooperate, he decided he will do so on board a ship to the island. Time was precious. In the docks, he managed to find one small boat - a ferry, actually - crewed entirely by Imperials, therefore citizens of the Empire. And since the Morrowind elves considered nearly everyone an outsider, these people would be one of those outsiders, therefore more keen on helping him. And indeed, he did not need to explain too much. For a small fee the sailors agreed to transport both him and his horse to the island, and Anthir could finally rest in a hammock that felt as good as the softest bed.

Ebonheart was just as he remembered it. And, what seemed very odd, less unwelcoming than the rest of Morrowind. It must have been because it was the only city on Vvardenfell under full control of the Empire. With all the Imperial soldiers roaming the streets, buildings of white Cyrodilic stone it felt almost like home...

There was only one thing that seemed completely out of place, of both Dunmeri and Imperial architecture. A statue, considered the symbol of Ebonheart, stood in the middle of its main square. An ebony dragon with its wings outstretched, long neck straight and head held high. It was indeed a creature proud and majestic in its obvious strength and power. But, what never occurred to Anthir before, it really _did_ look like pure ebony. That metal is extremely heavy and also hard. It would have been a horrendously difficult task to carve anything out of it. What would force a man, or a mer, to carve something as sinister as a dragon out of something as hard as ebony? Why would anyone strain themselves so much?

And only then did Anthir notice how much this statue resembles the stone avatar of Akatosh that now stands in the Temple of the One, back in Cyrodiil. How much it resembles Martin...

But the avatar has been there for a few months only, and the ebony dragon stands in Ebonheart ever since he can remember. A link between these would surely be pure coincidence...

... would it not?

Clenching a fist, he felt the white ring hidden under a glove hit his skin. It felt warm and calmingly familiar, like something he has always had and something he reclaimed. Staring at the dragon, nearly mesmerized, Anthir recalled how much his life has been led by prophecies and divine intervention. One thing led to another, there were links and connections between almost everything. Things he has done in the far past, in his youth, returned to him here, on Vvardenfell, revealing themselves as parts of a prophecy.

He was not so sure this ebony dragon had nothing to do with Akatosh.

Sighing, he removed his right glove very slowly as his arm stung badly. The white ring gleamed when it finally saw sunlight, after years of being kept secret, hidden. It seemed to smile.

Anthir smiled, too, at his precious Moon-and-Star.


	5. One Out Of Three

A rider on Vvardenfell attracted a lot of attention. The Dunmer ate horses, so it was very unlikely that anyone would actually _ride_ them. This confirmed that this man was an outlander, as under the layers of armour one could see only that his posture is human. He sped east of Ebonheart, towards the towering cantons of Vivec City.

He let his horse roam free outside its walls. He knew that she can take care of herself, so there was no need to worry about her. And, once he needs her again, she will find him.

Vivec City was built in stone, a rather depressing dark shade of sand which seemed so common on the island. Huge woven tapestries hung from the outer walls of the higher levels of each canton, marking which of them is which. Anthir knew them more than well... he spent so much time in this very city, hoping to find his place in the world right here, and ending up depressed and confused.

He is no longer, but that does not change the fact he dislikes the city.

As soon as he stepped past the main gate, two soldiers crossed blades right in front of him, blocking his path. He froze in his steps.

"State your business," one Dunmer guard said. Judging by their armour, they were of House Indoril, as most guards of the Tribunal. How fortunate...

"I need to see master Vivec," the newcomer replied honestly. The two elves exchanged brief glances before one spoke again:

"Lord Vivec will see no one unless given a very good reason."

Anthir smirked, knowing they cannot see it. After a short moment, devoted to the simple pleasure of an unseen smirk, he removed his helmet. It seemed that the guards held their breaths, their chests suddenly not heaving. It was visible under the thin armours they wore, and it pleased the Nord even more.

"You--"

"Me," Anthir nodded. "I see you remember."

"We cannot let you pass!" one of the Dunmer growled, more than sure of his own words.

"Oh, but you are of House Indoril, are you not?"

A long pause filled with uncomfortable silence followed. Reluctantly, one after the other, the guards nodded so slowly the movement of their heads was barely visible. But Anthir saw it all to well, and grinned again.

"And you know who I am," he said, clearly amused, as he raised his hand to present them the small white ring. "I _demand_ that you let me pass."

"We cannot--"

"Then I shall pass by force."

Another moment of utter silence. Once again exchanging glances, the elves lowered their blades and took a step to each side. Anthir could swear they both gulped as he passed.

That was pretty amusing. But the next part will not be this easy.

 

He found Vivec in his private palace that towered over the entire city, despite what the god said about stepping down from his position. But to say nothing changed was a lie. Vivec sat as always, cross-legged, on the floor instead of floating a foot over it. The four candles set in corners around his pedestal did not illuminate him fully, giving a divine glow to his golden half and a demonic shadow to the other. His joined hands were held up before his face, and his eyes were closed as if in meditation. What occurred to Anthir at first was that there has been more light the first time he came to this place. And at a second thought, that somehow this god seemed much less... divine. Somewhat weak.

Mortal.

Vivec slowly opened his eyes as his lips curved up in a slight smile.

"Lord Nerevar..." he said in a gentle tone, his voice deep and calm. "I knew you would return to us one day..."

Anthir laid his helmet somewhere on the stone floor, his eyes not leaving the elf for a second. Something was odd about Vivec. Perhaps he was ill? Or, perhaps, the Nord has never before considered him a simple mer, like any other.

Which, in his view of truth, was whom he was.

"I came for personal reasons," Anthir said as he approached the sitting god. He did not, however, join him on the floor. The god looked up at him with a slight frown over his eyes, which - as he could now see - were very tired and seemed tainted by something that was not an illness.

"What personal reason would be important enough to lead you back to me, Lord Nerevar?" Vivec asked. The formalities with which he addressed his guest and the certain smugness in his tone were irritating to the limits. But somehow Anthir dared not raise a hand; as something concerning this mer was very, very wrong.

"You have been at Red Mountain," Anthir stated the obvious to which the god only nodded. "You have... you have seen the Numidium."

Vivec's frown deepened. "Numidium? I have indeed."

"I have some questions about it."

The mer got to his feet amazingly slowly, as if untangling his limbs from one another. He eyed his guest closely, head to toe. "About the Numidium, Lord Nerevar?" he asked calmly, with hardly any emotions in his voice. "Curious. What would make you find interest in it?"

"As said, personal reasons," Anthir repeated, hiding his irritation.

Vivec smirked, and that single smirk changed him into the mer Anthir has known before, at least partially. There was more of the old Vivec in him.

"Ask, then," the god said.

The Nord took a deep breath. "I need to know how did the Dwemer intend to create a god."

Vivec eyed him again, the eyebrows raised even higher. "You do not... intend to do the same, do you?"

"Just tell me."

The mer sighed, shaking his head. "I know little," he admitted. "They wanted to use the Numidium, a golem, as a body, it seemed. Their god would be of stone with the heart of Lorkhan himself."

Anthir nodded to encourage him. He had to know. He _would_ know. "I have seen the golem..." he started.

"Yes and no," Vivec said quickly. "The Numidium was given to... the Empire," he said after a moment of hesitation. But he realized that the man before him knows the truth about Tiber Septim. "The heart remained here, but with no body to power. So a second Numidium was created, the one you saw under Red Mountain. Akulakhan."

The Nord was silent for a long moment. "It is destroyed, along with the heart."

"And so is the first Numidium," Vivec added with a convincing nod. "If you seek to create a god, you chose the wrong way."

Anthir shook his head, now pacing along the walls of the circular chamber. The mer's eyes were fixed on him, following his every step, as he walked, deep in thought. The lights illuminating Vivec cast even more bizarre and sinister shades as he slowly span around in place, and either illuminated the Nord or covered him with deep shadows.

"I do not seek to create a god," Anthir finally admitted, not stopping his endless wander. "I wish... to revive someone of... semi-divine nature." He wondered if Vivec found this true. He was not sure if he is right himself...

What if he is not...?

"Without necromancy that is barely possible, Lord Nerevar," Vivec replied slowly.

"I am no necromancer."

The god smiled. Of course. "Then you have set yourself a goal beyond the reach of most," he said. "You expect me to know what needs to be done, and indeed I know."

"Tell me then," Anthir urged him. "Tell me what needs to be done."

"To revive a god, you need what makes a god. Blood. Heart. Flesh. Only then you can invoke the soul. But I know not where you will find them..."

The Nord smiled with slight relief. He placed a hand on his little satchel and gripped it tightly, but the mer did not show whether he noticed that or not. "I have the blood," Anthir said.

"You never cease to amaze me," Vivec said somewhat emotionlessly, but with no hint of sarcasm. "One out of three."

The Nord nodded, staring at a candle. Its flame flickered, although inside the chamber there was no wind. With unfocused eyes, Anthir said: "The heart is no more..."

"It seems unlikely that even a part of it survived," the god confirmed. "You could try a daedra heart. They are near gods."

This got a shrug in reply. The man was still staring at the flame, pondering the options. He did not give this any thought before; he did not know what to expect. He was right to think he will need the shard of the Amulet of Kings, but what next? Would a heart of a mere daedra suffice when the man he wants revived lives among Divines?

And furthermore, the flesh...

"I will venture into Red Mountain," he finally said, his dark eyes gleaming for a split second with something that has not been in them a moment before. "I will see if I can salvage at least a string of the heart of Lorkhan."

Vivec tilted his head to one side. Now he looked like a clueless child, so very curious what that may be or where it came from. If Anthir looked at him, he would wonder how many more faces can this one mer have. He was always Vivec, but each time one laid eyes upon him, it was a different Vivec.

"That is very unlikely," the god said slowly. His eyes shone in the candlelight. "And rather risky. Now that you have returned from Akavir, you cannot just leave again."

 _A-ha_ , Anthir thought and grinned inwardly. _So they really believed I left for Akavir. That's good._

"Why not?" he asked out loud, irritated that after all that has happened not long ago this false god still dares to order him around.

Vivec grinned at him. "Politics, Lord Nerevar," he replied, watching the man's expression turn rather grim. "The Houses are in chaos. You are the Hortator... it is your prophecised duty to set things right."

Anthir shook his head. This was the last thing he expected, and the last thing he wished to hear about. But there was no turning back from this point; it was known he returned. He has to bear it. "What's happening?" he asked in defeat.

The mer turned his back to him, back that was completely bare save for a big golden collar of sorts that went around his neck and covered his shoulders. He stared at the opposite wall, where some sort of odd markings were drawn in something resembling chalk but seemingly much more durable. The Nord could not read the signs; he could only assume it was Chimeric.

"We are almost at a civil war," Vivec announced in a low voice. "The Dres have made an alliance with king Hlaalu Helseth... I suppose they finally accepted Imperial rule." He paused to shake his head. "The Hlaalu celebrate the crowning of Emperor Ocato and are already doing their best to buy his friendship. That got them in conflict with both Redoran and Telvanni... The Redoran are faithful to me, one out of three, who remain of the Tribunal, and will not follow Emperors until I order so. And the Telvanni wish for no government at all; they seek not love of Emperors, nor the king. But they will not ally with the Redoran."

Anthir listened to it as intently as he could, shaking his head all the time and realizing how little of this he will remember in one day's time. "And the Indoril?" he asked after a pause.

The reply was short. "In ruins."

This got a deep, drawn-out sigh. The man never cared for Dunmeri politics other than to gain titles from the House councilors. But that bore some consequence, and since he was away so long, it now turned back on him and struck him full force. He never cared which House does what, which rises and which falls, but the pain of the Indoril was his pain. He was an Indoril.

Whether he liked it or not.

"And what am I supposed to do about all these Houses?" he asked with something the mer recognized as mixture of exasperation and anger. "What do you expect of me?"

"You are the Hortator," Vivec reminded him. "Their war leader, their redeemer, their _king_. One-Clan-Under-Moon-and-Star, Lord Nerevar," he smiled gently, looking Anthir straight in those dark eyes. "Unite them. Show them the right path. It is either the Empire, or independence. They cannot agree which is best; you must show them."

"But which _is_ best?"

"That, Hortator, you must learn on your own."

Another defeated sigh. Politics... always got in the way when least expected. Right at this moment, politics just ruined his plans, moved what he came for even further from his reach. But he would not give up that easily. "The resurrection..." he muttered.

"Ah, yes..." Vivec nodded with slight interest. "You have the blood, and have a chance to find a substitute for the heart." He nodded once more.

"... And the flesh?"

The god turned around slowly, gazing at each of the four candles as if in prayer. He then faced Anthir, his golden - Chimeri - side suddenly saddened, the other - Dunmeri - dark and somewhat distant. "If you succeed with the other two, I will offer you my body."

Deep silence followed. No, he could not have heard that. Flames danced over the four shrinking candles, casting shadows over the odd writing on the wall. No, he surely has not. Vivec's shoulders heaved and sagged as if he was laughing, or perhaps sobbing, but he did neither. No, that has not been said.

It has.

"Your... body?" Anthir asked quietly, eyes narrowed.

"Yes," Vivec replied not at all louder, looking at the man over his shoulder. "This is your only chance to acquire divine flesh, Lord Nerevar."

"I cannot accept it..."

"Such is my will."

"You cannot kill yourself!"

"I am dying."

Silence fell again. It did not last long, as the mer went on, his expression softening and voice deep: "The destruction of the heart took away my godhood. My powers are waning, and I shall die soon." He paused to give the Nord a sincere smile. "I have agreed on it when I sent you to destroy Dagoth Ur. I doomed myself, my brother and my sister, but they knew it would come to this. Such was the price of our crimes against you..."

Anthir swallowed so hard it was audible. "Vivec..."

"I know you will not mourn me," came a reply with the same honest, gentle smile. "I do not expect you to. This will be the end of the Tribunal, death of the last Living God, but at least my death will serve some cause."

The Nord bit his lower lip and finally asked: "But why would you do it? Why would you help me after all that's happened?"

Vivec turned to face him again, a tear in the corner of his Dunmeri eye, unseen in the flickering shadow cast by a candle. "Because it was not always so. You trusted us before. My final oath to you is sincere, Lord Nerevar, Captain, Hortator. Do you trust me?"

The man hesitated, but that face softened his heart. This was the good side of Vivec, one that he has not really met before but one that has always been there. "I trust you," he said after a long moment.

The god sighed almost gratefully. "Go now, Hortator. Your subjects await your command."

Anthir turned to leave, but paused mid-step. "That writing... what does it say?"

Not turning towards the sign, Vivec recited: "There is a world that is sleeping and you must guard against it. For by the sword I mean the first night. For by the word I mean the dead."

The man then left, leaving Vivec all alone in his circular chamber by the dying candles. He shut his eyes as the door was closed, left to observe the world outside his safe palace and to await his slowly incoming death.


	6. Decision

Anthir stormed out of the palace, his mind racing around what he just heard from Vivec himself. Racing around it in circles, repeating the words over and over. He heard the god’s vow echo in his mind, and his voice reread the words written on the wall. He hardly noticed how fast he descended the numerous broad stairs, risking to fall with each careless step. But he cared not; at this moment, he knew not what he wants. Get as far from the god as possible? Or to stay and demand explanation, perhaps seek council? He gritted his teeth at this thought.

He would be damned if he asked Vivec for council.

Miraculously, he reached the bottom of the stairs without tripping over and paused. There was the Temple complex standing proud right before him, a place he grew to loathe. But right now he had nowhere else to go, no one else to turn to. Reluctantly, he went towards a small side door.

The Temple has not changed at all. There were all the small bookcases and a few desks, all lined with rows and rows of religious books that could make one think this was the library. There were not enough reading tables to make one, though, and in between bookcases stood altars with certain, more important books set on them for the pilgrims to read and contemplate. Carpets, ornate tapestries and numerous accessories adorned the halls, yet the central, circular room was almost bare, save for several stones. Those simple stones, covered only in carved images of various Dunmeri saints, were altars of said saints. In the baskets before each stone altar pilgrims left gifts when they asked for blessings; there were colourful flowers in one of them, a kwama egg in another and, surprisingly, a piece of skin of some reptilian creature in a third.

Much to Anthir’s anger and somewhat shock, Indoril Nerevar was not among those saints.

The Nord made his way through the main hall. Priests of all ranks bowed to him as he passed, their robes brushing against the floor as they did so. He did not as much as spare them a glance, not knowing how to put all his thoughts to coherent words. 

He paused in his steps when a richly dressed Dunmer blocked his path and bowed deeply. Anthir recognized the robes, the insignia he wore on his neck like a pendant. This mer, tall and skinny, old and frail, was the Patriarch of the Tribunal Temple, highest after god-king Vivec himself. This was the mer he did not wish to meet, but the only one he would speak to.

“Greetings to you, Moon-and-Star,” the Patriarch said. “I welcome you to our temple. How may we serve you?”

These words were actually some comfort to the Nord. After Vivec’s decree that forced them to accept him as Nerevar, he was no longer hunted and hated; such a nice change. He grinned inwardly, realizing they were now here to do his bidding.

“I require a room,” he said, skipping all unnecessary greetings and formalities. What use there is in them? “I will stay in the city for some time.”

The highest priest nodded and turned to one of his apprentices. After a hushed conversation in low voices, and conveniently in their own language so that the Nord before them could not understand, he turned back to the guest and said with a broad smile that emanated fakeness: “As you request, Moon-and-Star. My apprentice will prepare the best room for you. And of course all the priests in this humble temple are at your command.”

_How sweet of you,_ Anthir thought. “Thank you,” he said out loud. 

He was truly grateful when they led him to the room some time later. He had a lot of thinking to do.

 

It was big and bright. Possibly bigger than the private chambers of the Patriarch himself, this room had a huge bed, one dining table and a working desk, and of course a couple of bookcases. Among the neatly set tomes stood various instruments such as alchemical apparatuses, not as good in quality as his own set, he thought, maps with religious sites and shrines carefully marked on each of them, maps of the sky and constellations, arrays of the stars, calendars, a crystal ball and some items Anthir could not even name. He thanked the acolyte that brought him here as he took the key from him and closed the door when the elf left. Locking himself in his room from the inside, he went over to the bed and collapsed with a heavy, grateful sigh.

Time to recap. He came here with a selfish desire to bring back an Emperor – no, that is a lie. To bring back a man he loved and there was no other reason for his choice to do what he has done. So far he has broken his left arm in a successful attempt to rob Ocato; he will need to ask the priests to try and mend the bones before the pain goes beyond his resistance capability. Right, on we go. After miraculously escaping the pursuit, he went on a journey here, to Vivec City, which lasted longer than he expected it to, but there was no helping it. He was only worried that the inconveniences along the roads of nearly inhospitable lands of Morrowind only disturbed his injuries further. Time to stop thinking about it; it only brought further pain. The conversation with Vivec managed to get his mind off it for a while, at least.

Alright, where has all this gotten him? With a selfish desire to regain a lover he got involved into a strictly political affair of the Great Houses. Word has already spread in the city that the Hortator returned and it is only a matter of time till it goes beyond the walls and further across Vvardenfell. For now he was surrounded with priests of all ranks that will heed his every order because their precious god ordered so. Not a bad perspective, but sooner or later representatives of Houses – and perhaps, Sithis forbid, also the Ashlander tribes – will knock on his door and start demanding. Demanding that he makes their decisions for them as their Hortator, perhaps will try to trick him into war with one another… And his duty as their leader right now was to unite them, once again, like Nerevar did so long ago, at Red Mountain. 

He raised his right hand to his eyes and smiled as the little white ring gleamed.

One-Clan-Under-Moon-and-Star.

But there was also another problem. The Houses wished to recede from the Empire, maybe except for Hlaalu who have always been faithful and thus won favour of the Imperial City. But the others were not… Dres have finally accepted the Imperial sovereignty, but it took them pretty much an era to make that decision. Once the opportunity presents itself, they will most likely stand with the rest against the Empire. Redoran follow Vivec, who seems to wish for Morrowind to be autonomous again, Telvanni wish for no government, so will most likely ally. Only the Indoril remain a question – will they follow their god-king, or the Hortator, who is, in fact, one of them?

And among all that chaos stood he, Anthir the Nord who was born by the grace of Daedra Lord Azura for her personal revenge, and his duty now was to put all that chaos in order and unite the Houses.

How could he bring order if he serves Sithis, the epitome of chaos?

And furthermore, how can he help them break free from the Imperial reign if he is hopelessly in love with the last Septim?

It made no sense, but he had to find it, and quick. But where to start? Should he carry on with his own plans, or should he first take care of the Houses? If he tries to revive Martin, Morrowind might literally fall apart. But if he parlays with them, he will most likely help them betray Martin, his sovereign, his lover.

One way or another, he was in trouble.

And the only way out of it that he could find now, in his shocked, confused and exhausted state was to combine both solutions into one. But how?

His left hand traveled to his waist slowly, stinging as it descended and gripped the satchel that rested securely tied to his belt. He felt the sharp edges of the shattered Amulet of Kings touch his skin through the cloth, and he knew it was there, it was always there, the blood of Akatosh, the Dragon Blood, blood of the Septims, of his Martin…

The heart.

He needs to find a heart. Lorkhan’s is no more, he stabbed it himself, and it sank into lava deep under Red Mountain. It is virtually impossible for anything of it to remain down there, even if the heart itself was divine. For a split moment the image of Dagoth Ur – no, of Voryn Dagoth falling into the fiery pool as Akulakhan crumbled flashed in his mind. He dismissed it with a shake of his head and forced himself to focus on the heart. Perhaps Vivec was right on this matter? Perhaps a heart of a lesser daedra will suffice?

But what if not?

He gripped the satchel tighter, feeling the Amulet dig into his fingers. The pain was slight yet sharp, and seemed to have worked on him like a bucket of icy water.

Mages will know where to look for a heart. And Telvanni were mages.

He will start with the House of Telvanni.

Laying on his bed with his armour still on, a stinging arm, dirty and sweated after a long travel, Anthir drifted to sleep with a calmed mind and a broad smile on his face.

 

When he woke the sun was already high up. It seemed to be well past noon already, but no one dared to wake Anthir up. Yawning heartily, he pulled himself up on his right arm, letting the other hang limply and not be disturbed any further. He then looked down on himself and cursed. The dirt spread onto the sheets as he turned in his sleep and, in all honestly, started smelling. The hair that fell on Anthir’s face was thick and very greasy. With a heavy sigh, he got up from the bed and started removing the dirty armour. There were two or three different robes prepared for him the day before, so he just took one at random and put it on, not bothering that it will get stained in a few moments. He could not walk naked around the temple, now could he?

Dressed in the robe, which appeared to be of a light blue colour, he left his room, closing it behind himself and putting the key in the satchel that held the Amulet of Kings, now tied to the robe’s cloth belt. The corridor appeared overwhelmingly empty, but he paid no attention to it and just went on his way towards what he thought to be the temple’s infirmary. The walls around him were adorned with tapestries, one right by the other, which depicted, most certainly, various saints, their achievements and other religious scenes. Anthir could not recognize too many of them, but as his eyes wandered around, he thought he found Veloth. Again, there was no sign of captain Nerevar of the Indoril, which still remained somewhat a mystery. But on one of the woven tapestries further down the corridor he noticed an outline of a huge mountain, and above it, one of the moons and a single star.

When he left the narrow corridor and entered a hall with many beds, which he hoped to be the infirmary, a young looking elf bowed to him deeply. As Anthir looked around, the acolyte started mumbling something about his horse being found and brought into the city, washed, fed with specifically prepared safe hay and her armour being polished. The Nord listened with only one ear, the other focusing on finding someone of a higher rank, along with the mind. When he noticed that the Dunmer stopped speaking about his steed, he nodded and asked:

“Where is everyone?”

The priest seemed to be struggling to keep on a blank face. “In the main hall,” he explained simply. “It is time for the midday prayers, Moon-and-Star. I remained here to clean the chambers.”

This got another nod. “I need to speak to the healers.”

“They should be back within minutes,” the elf replied.

“Good,” Anthir said as he sat on a bed and rubbed his left arm, which began to sting again. “I will wait for them here. You, meanwhile, can prepare me a bath. I will need it.”

 

The healers have indeed returned to the infirmary shortly, and did not hide their surprise when they saw Anthir sitting there with one arm practically limp and a stone expression on his face. It took some effort to ask them to mend the broken bones without explaining how they actually became such; he had to make up a story of an attack on the way, but he did not mention the attackers. It was at night, he said. He was seen as an unbeatable hero in these lands, who could attack him and manage to break his arm? The priests did not comment on this story, although from their expressions he could clearly see that they did not believe a word. But they at least had the dignity not to ask questions.

His injured arm pulsed with pain each time it was touched, and the Dunmer appeared to be doing it quite often. One of them took his time by some alchemical instruments and returned after what felt like hours with a jar of something thick and greasy. Another priest smeared it all along the broken arm and Anthir could not help but grit his teeth and close one eye as it increased the pain. He was only grateful that they did not bring some sort of religious tome and did not start to read the passages out loud as he sat there, half-naked, with his arm greased and burning with renewed pain. Once the healer finished with whatever it was he used on the injuries, he gripped the arm. Anthir hissed as the hand ran along it, the priest muttering something the Nord could not understand. Then, he simply let go and nodded.

Apparently this was it and the combination of medicine and spell was supposed to help. Anthir could only hope it would. With a grateful sigh, he headed for the bath which was now ready and waiting for him. The priests seemed to have added something to the water; it was soothingly warm and smelled of flowers. As they told him, the added herbs were meant to ease the pain in his arm until it heals completely. Having nothing to loose, the Nord threw the robe aside casually and slipped into the bath.

It was very relaxing. Once inside, he felt like staying there all day and definitely took his time with cleaning himself. The bones indeed stopped hurting; the stinging pain faded into a distant, numb ache which was not even a bit as annoying. He let his mind wander to the meal that should be awaiting him when he is done. Smiling, he leaned against the side of the infirmary’s pool and closed his eyes.

Soon he will have to go and carry on with what he came for. The decision has been made.

But for now, he took his time. The world could wait.


	7. Heart of Tamriel

It took some effort to keep a straight face when a messenger stormed into the chamber and interrupted his long awaited, well-deserved bath. Sighing, Anthir dried his hands on a rough towel passed to him by the runner – only a boy, judging by his features and the look on his face – and took the scrolled parchment with a short “thank you”. It was bound with green wax and bore the seal he vaguely recognized as one of the Great Houses.

He unrolled it and started reading.

 

_To Indoril Nerevar, Hortator, Moon-and-Star,_

_I send my warmest greetings. I wish to welcome you back in our humble lands, my greatest Lord, and hope this message finds you well._

_I am writing in secrecy. None of my fellow Councilors know of this letter and let it remain that way, as it would once again let them know how we differ on views. My Lord Hortator, civil war is upon us. Each Great House has found its own goal and purpose within the chaos that your departure has left in Morrowind, and none shall turn back nor pause for anyone and anything. My own House rejoices to know that Tamriel no longer has a Septim; for obvious reasons, the Council now finds House Telvanni free of any influence from outside. They are ready to wage war upon all other Great Houses simply to force their own views upon the others. Hlaalu and Dres, along with king Helseth, Almsivi bless him, have allied with the newly crowned Emperor. But the greatest threat I see in Redoran; they follow Almsivi, whose views on this matter remain a mystery to everyone but themselves, and have turned their back on everyone but the Tribunal Temple. Also, the recent fall of Ald’Ruhn at the hands of a still unidentified daedric force has left them determined to fight back. It is only a matter of time before they put the blame in one of the Houses, most likely my own as we are wizards._

_I write this to you, my Lord Hortator, to ask for your help on this matter. I am a Councilor, yet I do not share the views of my fellow Councilors and do not wish for war with neither them, nor the Empire as a whole. I will provide all necessary information I dared not place in this letter should it fall into the wrong hands, if only you agree to meet me._

_With all respect,_

_Your humble servant Aryon, Mage Lord of Telvanni Council._

 

Anthir scrolled the parchment, an eyebrow raised. He vaguely remembered this Aryon to be rather open-minded as for a Dunmer. Perhaps mutual aid was in order.

Wait, back up… Ald’ruhn fell? To a _daedric force_? What daedric force? The Nord took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a short moment to slow his mind down. Ald’ruhn was a strong city, one which no mere regiment would destroy. If all this was true, the daedra that struck were more than just a loose bunch, most likely even more than a regiment. So there could be only one answer.

They formed an army.

And if they formed an army, it marched in the name of Mehrunes Dagon. Permanent gates where open, and they could have crossed the barriers between Oblivion and Tamriel. This made sense… after all, throughout the entire crisis, he has not set foot outside Cyrodiil and had no real idea about what was going on in the other provinces. It seemed more than likely that Dagon destroyed Ald’ruhn.

Did he not exterminate House Sotha ages ago?

It all made perfect sense.

The Nord waved a hand towards the messenger. The young elf approached and gave a deep bow.

“Return to master Aryon,” Anthir said “and tell him I say yes. He will know.”

The Dunmer bowed yet again and hastily left the chamber.

As he climbed out of the warm, fragrant bath, the Nord wondered if the course he took was right. He dared not back the Houses up and let them recede from the Empire; that would mean betraying Martin and his father, to whom Anthir owed a lot. Prophecies said he will give Morrowind back to its people… but he just could not do it. It was a hard decision, and he feared it was not a good one, but he could not delay it. How many would turn against the Nerevarine that does not fulfill the prophecies?

Then again, Azura told him they are fulfilled. He is no longer bound by prophecy.

Which means he can finally choose his own path.

 

 

 

A hooded figure made its way through the stone alleys of Vivec City, keeping to the canton walls, for some reason avoiding the canal edges. Under the big hood that flapped on the wind one could see dark, bluish skin and red eyes that almost glowed, giving the cloaked figure a somewhat sinister, eerie feeling. No one seemed to be paying any attention to this peculiar mer; eyes followed him, some of them sending curious and perplexed gazes, but no one dared to stop him. He was free to cross the cantons, following bridge after bridge, until he reached the southmost canton – the Temple complex.

He pushed one of the side doors open unceremoniously and stepped inside, his footsteps echoing in the hall that drowned in silent prayers and meditation. After a quick, hushed conversation with one guard, the hooded mer was led to a pair of ornate door. The Indoril guardsman unlocked them for him and closed them carefully as soon as the guest was inside the room, which proved to be the working chamber of the Patriarch himself.

But sitting at the big desk was not the high priest, but a tall, fair-haired man. The robe did not match his face at all – it was bright, cream white with yellow decorations, such as the thin strip of fabric hung about the man’s shoulders and tied by the matching belt. The man drummed his fingers on the desk absent-mindedly, surrounded by stacks of tomes which he did not even seem to have opened.

The elf removed his hood and bowed deeply. “Lord Hortator,” he said in a nearly mesmerized tone.

“Master Aryon,” Anthir smiled.

The Dunmer seemed to be somewhat younger than most Councilors in any of the Great Houses, although it was barely visible on his face. It was thin and slightly wrinkled around the eyes, which emanated certain tiredness and wisdom. A wave of a pale hand invited him to occupy a chair; he sat down, somewhat relieved.

“First of all, my Lord,” Aryon said “I wish to thank you for agreeing to meet me…”

“There is no need to be so official, friend,” the Nord cut in. The elf in front of him blinked twice, but nodded, somewhat uncertainly. “We are here to discuss a very serious matter, and I am dying to learn what you have to tell me.”

The elf paused for a fraction of a second. “My Lord, you of course realize each and every House is in a different situation.” When a sure nod came in reply, Aryon continued: “Each has its own, different goal, and each has its own problems to deal with.”

“I had not had much time to research this issue,” Anthir said truthfully, supporting his chin on one arm. “I would ask you if you could advise me on what to do. Whom to trust, whom to be wary of.”

The Councilor listened to the fingers that drummed against the painted wood of the desk, and finally said: “It is risky to say this for certain, my Lord. All depends on what is _your_ goal.”

The Nord averted his gaze to the elf’s side and chuckled slightly. “To _my_ goal we will return later, Master Aryon. But when it comes to politics, I understood there is more to the Empire than meets the mere mortal eye.” In response to the Dunmer’s narrowed eyes and suspicious gaze, he added: “I will explain it all in due time, but for now… yes, I wish for Morrowind to remain within the Imperial rule.”

This seemed to have cut like a knife; Aryon sat back in his chair, the shine in his wise eyes dying into a faint glow. He lowered his head, but nodded slowly. “Yes,” he said carefully. “Yes, I respect your decision, Lord Hortator. Your word is my law.”

Anthir smiled at this. “Fear not, for my reasons are strong and valid. But all in due time. Tell me, what course should I take?”

“As said,” came a reply as careful as the words before “it is risky to say. But I will be bold enough to suggest Hlaalu as the strongest allies on this matter, with their everlasting love for the Empire.” The Nord nodded to this, examining something on the desk that eluded the elf’s attention. “And the Dres,” Aryon added. “They accepted sovereignty, although I dare say that as soon as the chance presents itself, they will recede once again.”

“Tell me about the king,” Anthir asked calmly, once again looking at the elf’s face. It clearly showed how stressed he was; perhaps he feared that he is betraying his House, or all Dunmer at that, or perhaps the presence of the Hortator did this to him. He could not be _this_ important, could he? “What is his opinion on all this?”

“He remains an ally of the Empire,” Aryon said at once. It figured; his capitol in Mournhold, or Almalexia as it should be called, was as much Dunmeri as it was Imperial. And Helseth did not seem to mind… Hlaalu, after all. “And he seems to be opposing the Tribunal even more after the recent invasion on Mournhold.”

“You mean the one from beneath the city?”

“The very same, my Lord,” the elf nodded eagerly. “For some reason King Helseth blames the invasion on the Tribunal themselves.”

“He was never fond of them,” Anthir admitted with a drawn-out sigh. “How about the rest of the Houses? Indoril, Telvanni, your own, Redoran?”

Aryon’s shoulders moved up ever so slightly as he shrugged, but stopped himself mid-gesture. “My own people refuse to follow anyone,” he said bitterly; it took all his willpower to stop himself from spitting on the floor. “They worship only anarchy and slave trade which is their source of power and wealth. I am far from fond of that…”

“So it is no use to try and ally?” The Nord tilted his head to one side.

“I do not know, my Lord…” the Dunmer shook his head in a sign of defeat. “If we are to avoid civil war, you will need all Houses under your banner, under Moon-and-Star,” he explained slowly, looking down at the hand of the man before him. The delicate carved ring shone in the strong light of many candles and lanterns set all around the chamber as well as its reflections on glass decorations, apparatuses and jewelry. Anthir raised his hand and nodded to the ring.

“It will not be easy,” he mused out loud.

“Not at all, Lord Hortator,” Aryon agreed. “But I suggest you leave my House for the last. Dealing with those stubborn Councilors will take you too much time, and at this point, it is far too precious to loose.”

The man nodded once. “You are right, friend. Tell me about the Indoril.”

“It pains me to say this to you, who are an Indoril, but the House lies in ruin…” the Dunmer said, once again lowering his gaze. “It has been weak ever since Morrowind was claimed by the Empire, but now there is virtually nothing left of it. It has no Council, and its numbers do not exceed several dozen…”

This indeed hurt; Anthir felt as if a knife just sliced his already bleeding heart in two. It was odd. He never felt a part of House Indoril, he never even _met_ anyone from it, and still it felt like a part of his own being, an extension of his soul. He would be bold enough to say it out loud. Perhaps it was what little memories and feelings he inherited after the real Nerevar? He could not remember his previous life, he could not remember Red Mountain, any of his friends nor foes, but he still could feel who was his own and who was not.

“But they might prove worthy allies,” Aryon added uncertainly to break the overwhelming silence. The Nord looked up at him with one eyebrow raised in a mute question. “Most of their warriors serve as the Temple’s Ordinators,” the Dunmer went on, leaning back in his chair. “Having them under your banner will earn you influence in the Temple.”

“Wise words,” Anthir admitted, remembering the short days he spent as one of the humble priests of the Tribunal. Back then, the Ordinators and their House had his greatest, unending respect, before he even realized he is one of them. “The Temple will be difficult on this matter… I spoke with Vivec recently. I cannot make out what does he want. What is his opinion, his goal.”

The Councilor blinked slowly at the mention of the holy name. It was widely known that the god-king was the most public of the Almsivi, but he rarely spoke to the folk of Morrowind since the beginning of the Third Era, when the land became but a province of the Tamrielic Empire. Hearing someone mention they spoke to Vivec without actually boasting about it seemed to be quite an event.

“Lord Vivec is a mer of two natures, my Lord,” Aryon said, as if this was not obvious to the Nord. “Just as his face is split in two, so is his soul.”

_And his body as such_ , Anthir added in his mind. _He never denied the stories about himself being a hermaphrodite._ He held a grin as he thought of the thirty-six Sermons Vivec wrote himself, and the amazingly amusing story of his marriage with Molag Bal. As improbable as all the Sermons were, that story was at least some entertainment.

“He is as unpredictable as the Madgod,” he said out loud “and they have quite a lot in common, to say the truth. But that is not the point… I need to know what to expect.”

Aryon shrugged. “If I may be blunt, my Lord…”

“You may.”

“Lord Vivec never held any love for the Emperors. The death of the last Septim proves this.”

Anthir narrowed his eyes. What does his Martin have to do with this? “Indulge me.”

“You have not heard, have you, my Lord Hortator?” When the man shook his head in response, the Councilor went on: “I do not know what was said in other provinces, but Vivec’s truth is on the lips of everyone in Morrowind. Many still rejoice after his last victory.”

_Vivec’s truth?_

“What victory?” he asked, his voice strained. He did not know what was to come, not even what to expect, but he feared the answer and was not so sure he wishes to hear it.

Aryon’s face went blank. “He has slain the last heir, Martin Septim.”

The world span. Anthir sat back in his chair, his eyes fixed at a point somewhere in the air, but were unfocussed, glassy. Lie. Lie! Vivec has just sworn his allegiance, his _body_ to this Nord, and yet he stabs him in the very heart from behind. Why? What did Vivec want from poor Martin that would make him spread such lies? Traitor! This cannot go on for long, all of Cyrodiil knows –

But this is not Cyrodiil. This is Morrowind, and in Morrowind people believe their god-king.

Martin Septim became a political puppet of a mer Anthir hated more than anyone in this wide world. Pale hands gripped the arms of his wooden chair; Aryon blinked as knuckles turned white. He seemed to be trying to say something, but no words reached Anthir’s ears. He did not care to hear them. He knew the truth about the death of the last Dragonborn, and he would make sure everyone knows.

Vivec will pay.

“My Lord? Are you alright?”

The man blinked, as if waking from a vivid dream. “I am,” he said firmly, shaking his head. “What about the Redoran? They always aligned themselves with the Temple. I gather they follow their god?”

The first response was an almost apologetic nod. “Yes, Lord Hortator. But at this moment they face unexpected obstacles.”

“I am listening.”

“For some reason the Redoran have been attacked from two sides by seemingly unrelated forces,” Aryon said matter-of-factly, leaning forward to support his elbows on the table. “Currently they battle a regiment of Nords, presumably from Solstheim, but we cannot say for sure yet.”

This was news. Anthir narrowed his eyes. The thought that his – in fact – clansmen could besiege such an influential House made him both curious and wary. If they struck, they had a very good reason which eluded him. It was not the Dunmer who invaded Solstheim, but the Empire. Then why would they do this?

“And the other force would be daedra,” he mused.

“Indeed, my Lord,” the Councilor admitted. “Most of our people are still terrified, spreading improbable rumours as to where such a great force could have come. Many blame us, the Telvanni, as the only ones capable of summoning so many daedra.”

“But it was not you.”

“No, my Lord, and I thank you for saying this,” Aryon gave the Nord a relieved smile. “Many of my House’s finest have been in Cyrodiil during the latest invasion. We helped close the gates and keep the daedra at bay.”

Anthir’s eyes widened as he raised his eyebrows. “I had no idea…”

“Few did,” the Dunmer’s smile broadened. “But no matter. We did what had to be done, and we realize that the force that attacked the Redoran came here during the Oblivion Crisis, which means they were under the command of the Prince of Destruction.”

“These were exactly my thoughts, friend,” the Nord nodded, the thoughts of Telvanni aiding him and Martin being quickly pushed back by the returning news of Vivec’s lies. “Mehrunes Dagon wishes only for destruction, so it seems obvious that he would send his minions everywhere where he could. What bothers me, though, is why Redoran?”

“The daedra destroyed Ald’ruhn,” Aryon started explaining, wishing he had a map with him. But there was none, so he was forced to rely on his lord’s memory of how Vvardenfell looked. “The townspeople were taken completely aback and unaware. Rumours say they had to revive the crab in whose shell they made their Council’s seat.”

Anthir blinked and shook his head, gathering all his willpower to dismiss the image of the greatest building in Ald’ruhn actually _standing up_ and fighting against a force from Oblivion.

“But no matter what really happened, Redoran fell,” the Dunmer added, his voice slightly lower. “The daedra razed the city and marched onward, towards Ghostgate.”

“… Are you suggesting this is the reason they attacked? To get to Red Mountain?”

“There is no other explanation, my Lord. We lost track of the daedric force once it crossed Ghostfence.”

So the barriers Vivec erected around the volcano also fell. They could have stopped the blight from getting out and mortals from getting in, but they could not stop daedra. Whatever the reason, Mehrunes Dagon dispatched a truly formidable army of ruthless minions that stopped for no one and left only ruin in its wake. Anthir could bet the Moon-and-Star that only few extremely lucky elves survived the assaults. But what was so important in Red Mountain? What would make the Prince of Destruction so eager to get past Ghostfence?

Anthir’s heart stopped as realization dawned. Something in his mind repeated the words he heard spoken in the seventeenth realm of Oblivion, the Paradise.

Mankar Camoran spoke of Tamriel being taken from Mehrunes Dagon by Lorkhan.

The heart of Lorkhan was under Red Mountain.

Tamriel ae daedroth…

“I will do as you suggest,” Anthir announced carefully. “I will first contact the Hlaalu, but after I gain their allegiance, I will summon all the Councils for a meeting.”

“I am not sure if that is such a good idea…” Aryon began slowly, his voice sounding almost apologetic.

“We have little time,” the Nord reminded him. “We must unite them as soon as possible.”

_And once they are allied,_ he thought as the Dunmer before him stood up, _I will carry out my own plans. If something has drawn the daedra to Red Mountain, it was the heart. Which means it survived. And a divine heart is just what I need._

“As you say, my Lord Hortator,” Aryon bowed. “I should return to my tower before anyone starts asking questions.”

“Thank you for sharing all this, my friend,” the Nord gave him a broad smile. “You are truly great help, Master Aryon, and it shall not go unnoticed.”

_Especially when Martin Septim once again walks the eighteenth plane of Oblivion, Tamriel._


	8. The Dragon

Vivec City seemed to be in upheaval. The people knew who has recently returned and there was nothing else on their lips; wherever one went, one would hear only the name Nerevar and the revered title Hortator repeated in hushed whispers or heated conversations. Word spread very quickly and not longer than a day after the Hortator’s actual arrival did rumours arise. Some said he came back to lead them into a golden age. Others, ever distrustful of outlanders, muttered that he will bring an end to Dunmeri culture, traditions, fate and eventually all of Morrowind. Some others, however, still firmly believed that he returned to sever the last of their ties to the Tamrielic Empire and finally set things right.

If only they knew…

Canton of Hlaalu seemed to be most moved in the entire city. Up in its rich plaza were stone manors marked by tapestries with the House emblem woven on them with black thread. Guards patrolling the plaza took special interest in one of them, always turning to the wooden door as they passed as if expecting something to emerge from inside or battle sounds to rage from within at any moment. Nothing like that happened, however, and the guards did not stop before the manor for even a moment.

Inside, the manor was somewhat different from any Dunmeri dwelling in dark elven settlements spread across Morrowind, be it Vvardenfell or mainland. The furniture was carved in wood hardly seen in the province simply because such trees did not grow there, and the various ornaments set around the manor bore strong resemblance to Imperial culture. Even the plates and goblets had the Septim crest neatly painted on them.

Down at the lower level was a meeting. In a small study, containing only a desk, a bookcase and an additional chair brought in specifically for this occasion, sat two men. One of them was a tall Nord widely recognized by his light robe, and the other an Imperial with his brown hair neatly groomed and wearing a toned blue tunic. He was sitting at the loose chair and watched the other man with focused eyes and a calm smile fixed on his face.

“Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Councilor Curio,” Anthir said as he made himself comfortable by the working desk. “I appreciate your time.”

“It is not at all a problem, Lord Hortator,” Crassius Curio nodded firmly, the smile widening for a split second. “The Hlaalu are always loyal to their revered leaders.”

“So I noticed,” the Nord admitted. He eyed the other man carefully and added: “I came to speak with you because I am certain you will support my cause. As you know, I am by state and authority bound to bring order back to Morrowind.”

This got another nod, a quick and eager one. Before silence could devour the small room completely, Anthir went on: “But to the disappointment of all Dunmer, I have become a loyal servant of the Emperors of Tamriel.” To this, Curio beamed, showing rows of white teeth, even and ordered like a trained regiment of soldiers. Trying not to show his slight embarrassment at such openness, and realization of what laid at the source of this openness, the Nord decided to keep talking: “You are an Imperial, and serve a House which has always been strongly bound to the Septims.”

“All of this is true, pumpkin—I mean, Lord Hortator,” the Councilor said, quickly realizing that he forgot himself and covered that mistake. That did not, however, change his bright mood nor his expression. “The Hlaalu have always been loyal to our blessed Emperors.”

Anthir decided it is better to ignore that little slip. This was most certainly _not_ a matter he wished to discuss at this time. “That is why I have come to you. I am going to need to persuade other House Councils to cease warfare, but I fear they might not want to follow a servant of those they consider usurpers.” Curio nodded to this, indicating that he is listening, but kept quiet. “So I will need your support on this matter,” the Nord continued, his eyes fixed on the desk to avoid the mesmerized gaze of the Imperial. “I will need you to inform your fellow Hlaalu Councilors about my plans as I arrange… other things.”

Crassius narrowed his eyes suspiciously; this changed him into an entirely different man. From the always cheerful and in both meanings gay to a serious and truly noble Imperial. “And what would those plans be, Lord Hortator?”

Here came the difficult part. Anthir cleared his throat. “I wish to hold a meeting with all the Councils as soon as is possible. If I am to unite them, I will speak to all of them at once.” The reply was a firm nod, encouraging him to speak further. “I realize each House has its own problems and its own goals. Solving this will not be easy, but I shall do my best.”

Curio listened intently, not even realizing that he kept nodding his head up and down throughout the entire short speech. When the Nord ceased talking, the Councilor finally noticed what he is doing and stopped himself with slight effort, as keeping his head still felt somewhat odd after some time of such a steady motion. 

“Of course, my Lord,” he said after a moment of silence which indicated that Anthir is not going to add anything more. “I shall inform the rest of the Hlaalu. Is there anything in particular you would wish for me to tell them?”

Another moment of silence followed as Anthir tapped a finger on the desk. “No… No, I do not think so.”

He then stood up, his long light robe seemingly glittering in the candle flames that danced as he stirred the air around them. The Imperial also rose, and followed like an obedient hound when his leader headed for the door. 

“Once again,” the Nord said as he gripped the handle “I thank you for agreeing to meet me. I hope you realize how important this is.”

“I do, my Lord Hortator,” Curio replied as he gave a deep bow. “The Nine and the Empire.”

“Blessings of Akatosh upon you.”

 

It has been done. He sent couriers to each Great House with messages that summoned them all for a meeting. Council session, if they will. He, as the Hortator, will want to discuss the matters of each and every House and also the prospects of a union.

This will definitely hurt.

But now Anthir could do nothing but wait. The city of Vivec was never his home, and will never be, so he hardly looked forward to the perspective of staying there for weeks, maybe months.

Or, if things went terribly wrong, perhaps forever.

As he roamed the stone pathways, he did not even notice when the Dunmer around him bowed and greeted him. Most of them lowered their heads at the mere sight of him, intended on keeping their chins lower than that of their sovereign and prophet. None dared ask of his destination, and he had none. Anthir walked the lowest levels of the cantons, listening to the shimmering water that flowed from canals into the sea below, and then ascended to circle the plazas and down again to cross a bridge towards another canton. He felt more than uneasy. He was now in a city he shunned, in a robe somewhat heavy with dust of time, with his own plans contradicting with duties. How bad can it get?

Horrible, he answered himself.

He tried to shake off the thoughts; he has already decided what shall be done, and let his mind wander elsewhere. For a brief moment he paused and gazed over the sea, at the distant land that was there somewhere on the misty horizon. There, covered in the milk-white fog he saw the carefully cut stones of Ebonheart. The moment he set foot in that city when he returned to Vvardenfell seemed a lifetime away already, and he so wished to embark on another ship and return to Cyrodiil, to his only true home and just leave all this behind. He was no longer bound by prophecy, so none of this should be his concern…

But he took it upon himself when he stole the Amulet of Kings, the hollow, bleeding shard. It banged softly against his hip as he walked, reassuring him that it indeed is there and always will be. Anthir leaned against a stone barrier, the only thing that separated him from the waters of the ocean below Vivec. Ebonheart seemed like the only door that led to his home, and at the same time like another world. 

With unfocused eyes fixed on the horizon, Anthir recalled the ebony dragon of Ebonheart. The majestic sculpture stood there as if nothing ever happened, oblivious to the rise of the Nerevarine, his mysterious departure for a distant land, and even to the crisis that came from the Deadlands. Someone once said that ebony is the only thing that never succumbs to time, is always unchanging, always hard, strong and vigilant. A scratch or two is only a memory of something that happened before, something distant, unimportant. Ebony is immortal, unchanging…

Like the Aedra…

He once again recalled Akatosh… The Dragon God of Time, chief Aedra, was now standing in the Temple of the One, himself, in the Imperial City that now laid so far away. The raw, white stone to which the Divine turned after his victory over Mehrunes Dagon could not match the rough, black beauty of ebony of the Ebonheart dragon, yet it seemed far more majestic and godly than the statue on Vvardenfell. But the two dragons were so astoundingly similar… almost as if someone wanted to immortalize Akatosh in ebony. The God of Time surely ignores the calendar, is outside the clock; the only fair image for him would be in something as strong, as eternal. Could it be that the unnamed dragon was in truth Akatosh himself, carved in ebony and placed in Ebonheart, the seat of Imperial power on Vvardenfell, as a symbol of the Dragonborn and their rule? Or perhaps for even more religious reasons, as an avatar, or an altar, of the Divine so that he would watch over the city in this foreign, unfriendly land?

There were so many possible answers, so many things that fit, yet only the artist that carved it will know the whole truth…

The Nord sighed deeply. He at least understood why the artist did not tell a soul about the true identity of the dragon, if it indeed was meant to resemble Akatosh. In this land ruled by Living Gods, false deities that stole divinity from the bleeding heart of a real god, no one would look with favour upon a foreign, contradicting deity. But the sculpture stood there and withstood the flow of time, withstood cataclysms and insults. It has probably seen the founding of Ebonheart, thus the golden age of the Third Empire and Tiber Septim, and the fall of the Tribunal…

Fall of the Tribunal…

Almsivi were indeed undone, just as was prophecised by Lord Azura of Moonshadow herself. Almalexia, Ayem, Mercy, Alm in the three, has been driven insane and laid dead by the hand of the man that was once her lover. Sil, Seht, Mastery and last of House Sotha, Si in the three, died peacefully, slain by the mad goddess of Mournhold in his own, quiet domain. And lastly, Vivec, Vehk, Mystery, Vi in the three, was nearing his end. Although last of the Triune, he would not last long anymore, already visibly weakened and weary. 

Anthir sighed. Nothing about Vivec made sense anymore. Not that it ever did, but now the god exceeded himself. He realized he brought his nearing death upon himself and willingly accepted it… saying it is the punishment for all his crimes against the first Nerevar. How much of this was true, the Nord no longer knew. It all could be one big lie. He promised to let him use his own _body_ as the divine flesh he needed to revive Martin Septim… and at the same time claimed to be the one who has slain the last Dragonborn. It was all just absurd…

Anthir squeezed the small satchel. He did not tell Vivec why he needs the three divine ingredients. If the Chimeri god did not realize, which seemed more than likely, he would not object. But what, in the sixteen planes of Oblivion, did he want from poor Martin? What good would claiming his defeat do? Did Vivec want to prove his superiority over the Septims, while at the same time the entire Imperial City saw what really happened? The lie would not get far.

Then what good was it?

Staring out across the sea, Anthir began to understand why people said that Vivec would make a perfect Madgod.

He did not understand him, but for now he had to play his game. Vivec’s godhood and reign were at an end, and it was only a matter of time before word from Cyrodiil reached these lands…

What if it already did? What if the people already realized what happened in the Temple of the One?

He, Anthir Moon-and-Star, was born to rid Morrowind of its false gods. So it has been written, and so it has been done. The Tribunal was no more, even if one out of three yet remained. And a true god, true Aedra, has appeared and shown himself to the people – Akatosh, Dragon God of Time, saviour of all of Tamriel. Cult of the Nine has been present in Morrowind ever since the land became an Imperial province, but as far as he knew, it was shunned by the Dunmer. They acknowledged its existence as their sovereign Emperor decreed, but thanks to a treaty with Tiber Septim they were free to choose their own faith, and hence the Almsivi reigned.

Still he could not help but wonder… Having so many witnesses to his descent to Mundus, would Akatosh finally be accepted as a real god? How many of the Dunmer would actually believe in him? Would they call his name as they now call the Tribunal? Anthir snorted. He’d sooner grow a tail than hear the dark elves of Morrowind accept a foreign god… 

There was one way to find out. When he first came here, he was announced a Blade, whether he liked it or not. There have to be more than just old Cosades in this province, and if someone will know anything about the Nine, it will be the Blades. Perhaps he could spare some time and look for them sometime soon.

But for now, his mind was focused not on Blades as such, but on the ebony dragon of Ebonheart and his stone twin from the Temple of the One.

Akatosh, the Dragon God.

And his avatar, Martin the Dragonborn.


	9. Future

They gathered. It was almost miraculous what a common goal can make real; mer that were ready to jump at each other’s throats any moment now sat at a huge table, side by side. The main temple’s High Fence has been chosen as the perfect site to hold the meeting as being the best guarded and sacred spot. Anthir felt rather unusual; dressed in his signet robe that marked him as the Hortator, with the sacred enchanted ring shining happily on his finger and the twin-bladed sword of Nerevar at his side, he felt like a different man. This was what he wished to forget, what he cast aside when he came to Cyrodiil and stuffed the Moon-and-Star deep in a chest.

He changed; no longer is he the prisoner that was escorted to these lands and ordered to work under Cosades. He himself would describe his new personality as… ruthless? Chaotic, like Sithis? Merciless like the Night Mother? Considering the events that occurred during the Oblivion Crisis and his relationship to Martin Septim, none of those fit, yet he still felt that way. Listener. Gray Fox.

And this man is now forced to once again become the war leader of united Dunmer he no longer is. Can he act?

They stared at him, each and every one. He saw the richly dressed Dres council, each mer with his face partially obscured by shadows cast by their gray hoods, and also each wore lavish jewelry to add to their robes. There were the Hlaalu, all of them, following the example of Crassius Curio, dressed in toned tunics with the Imperial crest. How surprising. The Redoran presented themselves similarly, but refused to walk around with the Septim symbol, wearing their own instead. Next to them were Telvanni, each in their own robes that emanated magicka, felt strongly by wizards around them. There was one elf that seemed out of place, wearing humble, plain robes and a pendant crafted in brass; it was shaped like an open palm, with three daedric letters carved on the fingers: Ayem, Seht, Vehk.

And lastly, and most surprisingly, there were two unexpected guests: royally dressed venerable Helseth of the Hlaalu, king of Morrowind, and the dying god, Vivec.

They kept staring.

Anthir stood up from his special, highback and lavishly ornate chair, and cleared his throat diplomatically. 

“Honoured Councils,” he nodded respectfully “Your Majesty,” he bowed to the king “and Lord Vivec.” Here he did not bow. He was not even sure if that can pass for a proper greeting given to a god in public. But he had no better idea. “It pleases me to see you all here. Thank you for answering my summons. We are here to discuss the future of this fair land.” He paused. _Fair_ was not a word he associated with the nearly inhospitable kingdom of Morrowind, but as the prophesized hero, it seemed fit that he at least pretends he feels some bond with it. “This fair land an all its people.”

Silence answered him. Out of the corner of his eye, Anthir discretely sought a certain mer among the gathered Telvanni wizards. He did his best not to meet the gazes of both Helseth and Vivec; those drilling, cold gazes that seemed to await only for his, even the slightest, mistake. After a moment of his search, the Nord finally found him. Master Aryon of House Telvanni was sitting among his fellow Councilors, dressed in his signet turquoise robe. He was smiling, and nodded as he noticed the man is watching him.

“There is much to be done,” Anthir said. This sounded so forced, so artificial that everyone around him knew the words have been uttered only to break the silence.

“Morrowind cannot take another war,” the man kept trying, praying he buys enough time to come up with something reasonable to say. “This is why we are all here. We survived a crisis, but remain in chaos.” He paused, looking around at the gathered ambassadors, but their stone faces betrayed nothing; only Aryon nodded once more, and Crassius Curio gave a small smile.

“And that is why you are here,” came a deep, rather harsh voice. All eyes turned to the speaker; he appeared to be a man with features similar to those of a Nord, but something in them was not right. A slight distortion in the face, a subtle hint that there was more to this man than met the eye.

Anthir knew he meant only trouble.

“Indeed I am,” he said.

“Word has reached me that you have willingly given yourself to Imperial rule, Lord Hortator,” the Councilor said dryly. Some of the ambassadors around him seemed to draw breaths; apparently not everyone realized whom they have appointed their leader. “Uniting all Houses as servants of the Empire seems rather impossible, if I may be so bold to say.”

Anthir opened his mouth to reply, not entirely sure what to say, but someone was faster.

“Now, now, pumpkin,” said Curio, who was sitting next to the odd man and actually patted him on the shoulder. The hand was angrily slapped away. This did not, however, wipe the smile off the Imperial’s face. “The Empire did not really intervene with our customs and culture. You, as a Hlaalu, should know better.”

The Nord smirked inwardly. There was a very straightforward ally, one that really knows the arts of persuasion… even if he allied only because he fancies his superior.

“There are some that disagree,” said a high-pitched voice somewhere to the left of the table. The mer apparently decided to attend the meeting in the armour of a Redoran guard. Anthir was surprised he did not notice him before. The armour _gleamed_. “Their cult intrudes on our sacred ground and mocks our gods!” Halfway through this sentence the Councilor raised his voice to the brink of a shout, waving one hand towards Vivec, who took it with a simple frown.

A moment of silence followed. It seemed that everyone was expecting to see the reaction of the god that sat among them, what – by many – was seen as a blessing in itself. But the two-faced mer did nothing more than keep his brow arched in a mute question that was never asked and yet remained obvious to all.

Someone spoke. The voice was deep and – for some unknown reason – seemed distant, as if coming from deep beneath the ocean or from behind a stone wall.

“But it is not entirely true,” it said.

The owner of this curious, beautiful voice was a short elf that seemed dwarfed by the presence of all the ambassadors around him. He remained silent so far, only observing or playing absent-mindedly with the sleeve of his robe. And said robe was plain, bearing only the crest of his razed, crumbling House. On his chest hung the brass hand with three daedric runes carved upon it.

“Do tell,” the strange Nordic Councilor urged him. Anthir vaguely – and finally - recognized him as Yingling of the Hlaalu, the one they called Half-Troll. He could clearly see the reason.

The small mer turned to the one that opposed Imperial rule. “You are a Redoran,” he announced the obvious, gaining an uncertain nod in response. “Just like you, we Indoril are strongly bonded with the Almsivi.” With the last, holy word he gave a small bow towards Vivec, who sat right opposite him. The god seemed unimpressed, yet his lips curved up in a slightly faked, empty smile. “Perhaps even more.”

“You have no right to speak, child,” the Redoran Councilor snapped, his bushy eyebrows moving closer together as he narrowed his eyes. “Your House has no Council. You should not even be here!”

Anthir raised a protesting hand as the shout rumbled across the hall. He sent the mer a sharp gaze, lowering the arm on which the enchanted Moon-and-Star happily shone, and said, slowly and carefully: “And you will treat your Dunmer brethren with proper respect. The Indoril have no Council, therefore sent another representative.” He turned to the small elf. “Tell us, who are you?”

The mer then stood up and bowed so deeply his forehead nearly touched the wood of the table. His long, dark hair fell graciously at the sides of his thin face and then back onto his shoulders as he straightened up.

“My Lord Hortator,” he began solemnly, overwhelmed by the weight of questioning stares now fixed on him. “I am Eryn Almari, commander of the army of Great House Indoril.”

“Military,” Yingling snorted.

Ignoring him, Eryn went on: “Since all our Councilors have fallen during the recent invasion and we did not appoint a new Council yet, I have been sent here as a representative of my House.”

“This is outrageous,” one of the hooded figures of a Dres ambassador cut in smoothly. The statement was not aggressive; what made it worse was that it sounded like a plain, obvious statement. “Head of military forces, however respected, is not equal to any of our Councils.”

To the surprise of everyone around him, Eryn’s face was twisted by a slight grin. “Indeed, I must agree, most venerable Councilor,” he said calmly. “That is why I have decided to follow the _true_ leader of the Indoril.”

With this, he gave another bow towards Anthir, who only smiled as he saw, out of the corner of his eye, the lips of Yingling Half-Troll form a mute curse. The Nord only nodded and said to Eryn:

“Tell us what you think of the Tribunal and the Nine.”

The small mer returned the nod. Under the heavy gaze of Vivec, which he carefully tried to avoid, his voice sounded very strained, as if he struggled to keep it from trembling.

“My Lord Hortator, Master Vivec, Your Majesty, venerable Councilors,” he began as if testing is he can speak properly. “The Empire are not and have never been our enemies. If we had not submitted to their rule, they would have invaded us, destroyed our culture and our faith. But they have not.”

There was a pause. Anthir carefully observed Vivec, whose two-coloured face remained absolutely blank as he followed the speech.

“We have accepted the superiority of the Cyrodilic Emperors.” Here Eryn turned to the living god, but closed his eyes for a split second as if the divinity before him blinded him. “Even our most sacred Lord Vivec understood we needed Imperial protection.”

“Protection?” Yingling cut in, nearly spitting the word out onto the table.

“Yes, protection,” Anthir repeated, causing all eyes to turn to him. He sat down and leaned back in his chair. “You saw the recent invasion… the Oblivion Crisis.” There was a general murmur of reluctant agreement. “The Septims protected us from such daedric forces.”

“But we have been invaded!” a voice growled. It was one of the shorter Redoran Councilors in a dark tunic. “Ald’ruhn lies in ruins, as does Ghostgate!”

“The daedra are most likely still at Red Mountain,” Anthir interrupted smoothly. “The gate through which they came here has been closed among with every other. They cannot return to Oblivion.”

This time the voice that replied was chilling; calm and demanding at the same time, gentle and despotic in one.

“So what are you suggesting,” king Helseth said emotionlessly “is that we go there and attack the daedra.”

“They are not expecting it,” the Nord responded, feeling the hair in the back of his neck stand. “They must be either confused by having their way back cut off, or occupied by whatever they sought at Red Mountain.”

“What makes you think they sought something, Lord Hortator?” asked Curio.

“Why else would they break through Ghostgate?”

The mer – and in some cases, also men – around him instantly fell silent, looking either at one another as if expecting someone else to say something and spare them the trouble, or watching the wood of the huge table curiously. It was more than obvious that no one knew how to respond.

The first to speak after several moments that stretched into eternity was a sorceress, a Dunmer lady dressed in a long, flowing robe all covered with runes that were woven with thread that seemed to emanate its own magicka. Something in the back of Anthir’s mind recalled her as the one who hated – no, _loathed_ all men of all species and kinds. Her drilling gaze was fixed on him, and although her thin face was a mask with no expression, he knew more than well she would love to slice his throat, or perhaps cut off something else that was definitely lower.

“And what would they be seeking, my most holy Lord?” she asked. The way with which she pronounced the unnecessarily extended title made the Nord shudder slightly. He could only hope no one has seen it under the loose Hortator’s robe.

“More than one calamity took place at Red Mountain,” he replied slowly, his face fixed in the lady’s direction – Mistress Dratha of House Telvanni, he recalled – but his eyes were focused on a point somewhere by her right ear. He dared not look at her. For some curious reason, her hatred for men was being countered by the same feeling that slowly grew in him. So be it; you reap what you sow. “There was the meteor, the comet or whatever that created the crater at first.” He paused here. He had no idea what actually created the volcano at Red Mountain, and never bothered to check. “There was the first Numidium, of which all of you know, most likely far better than me. Then came the sleeping Sixth House and D- the Sharmat.”

No one said a thing as he named the calamities. No one seemed to as much as move a muscle as he spoke. A chill ran down Anthir’s spine; what was this all about? The Hortator, the Moon-and-Star actually being here and commanding them like a proper leader for the first time since the disaster of the First Era? Or was it the memory of Dagoth Ur – no, of Dagoth Voryn who slept in the volcano and supposedly cast the Blight over Vvardenfell?

Was all of this really _this_ … extreme? Were all of them afraid of a ghost of the past?

“The Sharmat is no more,” came a deep yet firm voice. Voice of someone who is clearly a kind mer that knows how to show the people his own way and then make them believe it is what they want. Anthir was not at all surprised to realize it was Vivec who said it. “The fortresses under Red Mountain lie deserted once more, Moon-and-Star. What could be there that the daedra might seek?”

Someone muttered something to their neighbour; then someone said something else to someone else and an overall, humming mutter of mixed voices arose. No one noticed that, among all this, the two-faced god Vivec sent the Nord a very meaningful gaze that said more than any words could.

_I know what you know_.

Anthir cleared his throat. “I believe it might be something related to the Sharmat, the heart of Lorkhan which the Dwemer hid under the volcano long ago, to Akulakhan…” He trailed off, but under the heavy gazes of narrowed eyes or eyes accompanied by raised eyebrows he forced himself to add: “I can only speculate. All those were extremely powerful, soaked in energies we mortals could not even dream of.” He gazed sideways at Vivec; the Chimeri lord only nodded. He took his returned mortality far more serious than he took his divinity, it seemed.

“You are not trying to tell us,” Helseth began, his eyes drilling through Anthir and nearly ending up at the opposite wall “that whatever was there is powerful enough to strengthen the already unbeatable daedra?”

_Thank you,_ the Nord thought.

Aloud, he said: “Indeed, that is what I fear might happen. The daedra that razed Ald’ruhn and Ghostgate are not unbeatable. They are cut off from any reinforcements from Oblivion, hence we can win if only we act swiftly.”

“But my lord, if I may…” said Eryn, the small Indoril commander slowly. When he gained a nod of approval, he added: “What if they already reached whatever they sought?”

“There is only one way to find out.”

The room froze. It was not Anthir, not the Hortator who said it; it was Vivec himself. He stood up from his seat and straightened up to his full height, impressive for a Dunmer yet normal for an Imerial human. In comparison to Anthir, he was surprisingly short as for a living god. The red robes he was wearing flew down about his frame almost majestically, and his entire two-sided form seemed to emanate a gentle glow. Or maybe that is how the Dunmer around him perceived their most holy lord, the most public of their sacred Almsivi rulers; to the Nord, this mer was just as any other. Curious like Mephala, cunning like Molag Bal, ruthless like Mehrunes Dagon and unpredictable like Sheogorath, yes, but still a mortal mer.

Unpredictable is a good word. Once again, Vivec seemed to be on Anthir’s side, just like when he gave him the gauntlet they called Wraithguard, and when he promised to aid him in reviving Martin, even though he had little idea what he is agreeing on.

But then again, he has claimed to have done so many things that were simply lies. What does he want? What _is_ with this elf?

Vivec surveyed the gathered ambassadors slowly, his face a stone mask. His eyes paused to stare at Anthir for a brief moment and then moved forth.

“I am with Lord Hortator,” he said almost solemnly, his voice as deep and as beautiful as Anthir has never heard it before. It echoed in his mind for a long moment after the words died. “We all realize each House has something they aspire to, be it freedom or protection of the Empire, or whatever else may lurk in the hearts I see closed before me,” he kept talking. Everyone felt silent; one or two Councilors raised hands to press them to their chests where hearts should be. Apparently, the god’s speech impressed them.

That was the moment when Anthir realized how grateful he should be for the backup. Alone he would never make all of them listen, follow him blindly into battle which was – face it – awaiting only because of his selfish plans. The daedric invasion was just a convenient coincidence.

And the spiritual leader of the Dunmer was on his side now. Well, perhaps not entirely… side by side. Either way, the god was now virtually doing the job for him, uniting the competing Houses under _his_ , Anthir’s banner.

_Why?_

“But in a land besieged by daedra no one can achieve any goal,” Vivec went on, his expression softening for a split second before turning back to stone. His eyes narrowed slightly. “I know each of you desires something. But what use is having something if there is no land in which to rejoice? We must first secure our future; then we may proceed to building it.”

The ambassadors started muttering among themselves again. Anthir looked through them carefully, but no one returned his questioning stare. Everyone seemed busy with one another. The Nord’s heart rose to his throat and pulsed there, beating like a drum against his muscles, making him unable to speak.

“Time has come to avenge our brethren that fell defending Ald’ruhn and Ghostgate,” Vivec called loud to be heard above the general murmur. The people around him instantly fell silent. “The Hortator will lead you to another victory and to vengeance.”

_Will I?_ , the Nord thought bitterly.

“You are blessed by the Almsivi and by the eternal moon and by the everlasting star,” the god added solemnly. “It is time to march to battle. Are you with us?”

Anthir exhaled with great relief as he saw Crassius Curio stand up from his seat, much to the disappointment of Yingling Half-Troll. He himself rose as well as the Imperial Councilor said: “The Hlaalu will always follow a true leader. We are yours to command, Lord Hortator.”

A smile crept onto the Nord’s face and he did his best to stop it. It was far too early to rejoice, although the never waning loyalty of Curio brought some warmth to his broken heart. Even if it was not the kind of warmth which Curio would like to bring.

Next to rise, almost immediately after Crassius, was Aryon. “The Telvanni will stand at your side, Moon-and-Star.”

“So will the Indoril,” said Eryn, getting up. “You are one of us, lord Nerevar. We are always with you.”

The Redoran in blindly gleaming armour was next to rise. “Lord Vivec agrees to this, and so do the Redoran.”

A figure in a gray hood that obscured its face stood up from its chair. “So be it,” it said. “The Dres will not back away. Lead us, Hortator.”

And finally, the most unexpected came. Helseth rose and, grinning slightly more to himself than anyone else, said: “My armies will aid you, Hortator.”

Anthir felt odd. The small white ring on his finger suddenly seemed to heat up, as if warmed by all the voices of unity and loyalty around him. It was not entirely his doing, but he did it. He united them again, like the first Nerevar did so long ago at Red Mountain, under his own banner of a moon and a star.

One-Clan-Under-Moon-and-Star.

Perhaps he will yet grow to deserve all those holy titles.

“My friends,” he said, keeping his voice as calm as his racing heart allowed him to. “I thank you for your trust. You have no idea how grateful I am, and I swear to mother Azura I will not let you down. Together, as one, we will build a new future for Morrowind.”

This was it; no turning back. Discussing among themselves, the Councilors left the High Fane and then the Temple complex as a whole, not all of them happy with the outcome of the meeting. Some were still not fond of their new… well, of their second Hortator, but what is done is done. They were bound to obey. Only the king was not, and Anthir could not help but wonder why did he suddenly agree to help the one who fulfilled forbidden prophecies and was seen by him as a threat.

There will be time to answer these questions.

Right now, he was very eager to speak to Vivec. When everyone left, he waited.

And, as soon as the sun went down and night greeted him with a gentle, cool breeze, he headed to the southmost palace canton that towered over the entire city of Vivec.

He had questions. And he demanded answers.


	10. Divines

Wow… my longest chapter yet! Hope it didn’t turn out too corny… or emo. Also, I noticed how often I finish chapters with Martin. Duh. So sue me.

 

 

 

 

Anthir truly loathed climbing the stairs that led to Vivec’s private palace. There were over two hundred of them. He never counted, but he was more than certain the number is more or less accurate. And even though the stone steps were wide and not too tall, making it slightly easier to climb the ridiculous height, he could swear this was only to appease Vivec’s ego. The only construction that stood taller than the palace in the entire city was the Ministry of Truth, and even that was only because the bloody ministry was a moon frozen in mid-air. Anthir raised his eyes to it only to see that it has not changed at all over the years. Still the same piece of lifeless rock, hollowed inside to form corridors and cells.

After a tiring ascent, he finally reached the palace door. He could already feel himself sweating and was really glad he wore only a simple linen shirt and matching trousers. They were supposed to hide him from any suspicions, as guards seeing anyone walk around after dark would instantly be alert, but in such light clothing he could sneak around a bit. And he did not mind sweating all over plain linen.

He stood between two triangular stones, the flat sides that were facing him carved in Dunmeri writings that described one of Vivec’s great deeds for all he cared. Experimentally, he pushed the surprisingly simple wooden door.

They were open.

As they smoothly moved to make way, Anthir stepped inside the palace. The four candles set around the central circular pedestal were not lit, cloaking the entire round chamber in darkness. Once the door was closed again, normal eye would not see a thing. Anthir waited a short moment, allowing his eyes to get used to the dark, and carefully proceeded inwards. He kept to the left wall, almost hugging it as if he was trespassing on restricted areas. Who knows, perhaps he was. Something in the very back of his mind nudged him, reminding him where the door to the inner chambers were. It also reminded him not to worry, as along the outer walls there was nothing, not an obstacle.

Anthir treaded lightly, the simple boots he chose for this generating absolutely no sound. His trained eye of the thief noticed a slight change in the texture of the darkness; extending a hand, he felt cold, rough wood. Door to the inner chambers. He paused for a moment, wondering if he should have taken the Cowl of Nocturnal with himself, but quickly dismissed the thought. The king of Cyrodilic thieves, unknown in Morrowind, would have been instantly arrested. The Hortator would not.

The second door was open as well. He stepped inside and closed it behind himself. The walls at his sides were forming a narrow yet tall corridor, adorned with woven tapestries with scenes he could not recognize in this darkness. His best guess was that they were religious, judging by where they were hung. He proceeded onwards cautiously, moving along the center this time; he was afraid that touching the tapestries might cause unwanted sounds, however quiet they might be.

Nothing. Not a light, no muffled footsteps of a guard that might be patrolling the palace at night. Was Vivec this confident? No one would dare break into the palace of a god for sure, let alone assault said god. It was possible that there were no guards inside for that very simple reason.

But then again, Vivec was more than well aware of his returned mortality and waning powers. Even though the world would need a while to understand, even now, seven years after the destruction of the heart, the Chimeri lord would be cautious. He would call his Ordinators to secure this palace.

So why has he not?

The hand he held before him to check for any possible obstacles met solid wall. But to his left, where the corridor turned rather abruptly, was a silent light that flickered somewhere by the floor. It most likely came from under some door. It could have meant that Vivec was not at all asleep yet.

Stepping very carefully and even slower than before, Anthir went to where the light came from. The more he neared, the more it revealed. It indeed came from under a door – a door made of simple wood, very plain, without as much as a single carving that would befit a god. Even opposite the chamber the wall was completely bare.

Holding his breath, Anthir pushed the door.

They were unlocked. Inside, by a flickering candle, sat Vivec in his long red robe. He was supporting his chin on one of his hands, the Dunmeri one, which in turn was resting on the table where the chandelier stood and cast what little light it could. One of the god’s legs was swung over the other. His golden side was almost entirely obscured by shadows, and so he looked very sinister, devilish. The slight grin did not help.

He waved for Anthir to come in. Bewildered, the Nord obeyed, remembering to close the door behind himself.

“I have been expecting you,” Vivec said softly.

“I noticed,” the man muttered as he came closer and seated himself unceremoniously in a chair that was barely visible in the dim light.

“You wish to talk,” the god announced. “Talk, then. What is it you need?”

Anthir did not respond at once. He paused, letting words dance and fight in his mind until they formed a coherent sentence, one that would not – hopefully – offend the god. Although sometimes he really wanted to offend him badly, perhaps even more than just that.

Finally, he said: “I want to know who you are and what you want, Vivec.” This was not the best way to put his thoughts into words. Moreover, any other way would have been better than this, but he had no other idea. The simplicity and straightforwardness of a Nordic warrior won.

The god tilted his head to a side, revealing a bit of his golden half in the flickering light. “You know who I am, Lord Nerevar. Of all people, you should know.”

Anthir snorted. “I thought I know you,” he corrected the elf. “But, just like anyone else, I am no longer sure what is true and what is not.”

This brought a smirk onto the two-coloured face, one that – in the light of a single, dancing candle flame – sent a chill down the Nord’s spine. This was another side of Vivec, one that was hidden when they met in this palace only days ago. And one that, just like the good side, has always been in this mer. This is him, Anthir concluded. Anticipation of Black Hands Mephala, husband-wife to Molag Bal, god of poets, assassins and perverts.

What has he gotten himself into…?

“Very wise, Moon-and-Star,” Vivec said smoothly, his eyes that seemed to glimmer fixed on the thin face of the man before him. “Indeed, I am not what people think I am. Ask then; what do you wish to know of me?”

There came another, long pause. For moments that kept stretching and stretching the two of them sat almost motionlessly, illuminated by the candle that kept shrinking and was the only indicator of passing time. It was too hard for Anthir to choose the first question; he had a hundred, maybe two. They span and danced in his mind, fighting and uniting and fighting again. Dozens bubbled up to the surface of his thoughts, then sank to make way for others. Vivec waited patiently, his face turning to a blank mask once more as time passed. When almost one third of the candle’s wax melted and ran down the silver chandelier, the Nord finally asked:

“Why are you doing this to me?”

The two eyebrows, each set on a different face yet part of the same mer, moved closer as Vivec narrowed his eyes. “Doing what exactly, Lord Nerevar?” he asked slowly.

Anthir took a deep breath and let the air out with a silent hiss he did not intend to utter. “Everything. All of this.” He said, his heart beating like a war drum. In fact, he was not entirely sure if he is at peace or at war with this peculiar god. “You keep helping me and then betraying, lying,” he went on, talking somewhat faster now. He felt himself panting as anger and suicidal curiousity took over him. “Have you murdered Ner- have you murdered _me_ back at Red Mountain?”

Vivec was silent. His expression softened, and for a brief moment Anthir had the feeling he is saddened, but knew better than to believe the eyes when it came to this elf.

“Have you?!”

“I have,” the mer whispered and saw the dark eyes of the Nord before him flash with living fire. “Let me tell you the story…”

He turned to the candle, his golden half now before Anthir. With his Dunmeri side out of view, he looked so… good. So kind, so loving, like a patron god should be. The man said nothing, only kept staring, his chest heaving up and down heavily as he struggled to stay calm and not jump at the other’s throat this very moment.

“It has been long ago,” Vivec said in a low voice, his unfocused eyes staring at the dancing flame as he recalled those fateful days of the First Era. “Sotha Sil found a way to use the heart to gain godhood, the same way Dagoth Ur became godlike.” Here he paused, gazing sideways at Anthir. The Nord only nodded, intending to hear as much as he can before he bursts with fury. “Nerevar forbade us to do so. The power of Lorkhan’s heart was corrupting… we craved it…”

This sounded like a rather lousy excuse. Shaking his head weakly, Vivec sighed through his nose and went on: “It was Almalexia’s idea. Anticipation of Prince of Plots and all that…” Another sigh, this time heavy and audible. He shook his head once again. “Nerevar wanted to summon Azura. Almalexia poisoned the candles, Sotha Sil the robes, and I gave him a cursed incantation…”

The words trailed off into silence. Anthir narrowed his eyes even more, staring at the golden mer. Could it really be the real Vivec? The way he spoke of this murder made it sound like he regretted. Thousands of years of immortality and endless divine powers, and yet now, when he is all alone with the man he once slew cold-blooded, he seemed like an open book with tearstains all over it. Could this be?

The elf suddenly looked up at Anthir. “Each of us took it differently,” he announced no louder than before. “I never took it seriously. I’m a poet, not a serious man… I toyed with divinity, challenged gods and mocked mortals.”

“But you killed me,” the Nord reminded him, and the words came out as a sharp hiss.

“And it haunts me,” Vivec whispered, his eyes travelling down to rest on his lap. “Day and night, Lord Nerevar.” Here he bit his lower lip before going on: “Some that believe this story say I did it because I wanted Almalexia for my own…”

“… Did you…?”

The mer looked up at him, something glittering in his eyes which Anthir could recognize only as shame mixed with apology. It was almost terrifying, to see those feelings in the eyes of a god who stopped for no one and nothing.

“I had her,” he said. And nothing more, as if this was the only true answer which was meant to say it all.

Anthir did not know if it said it all. He did not see it.

“And she wanted to kill you like she killed Sotha Sil,” the Nord said slowly. “And she wanted to kill me. Even though she was once mine, and then yours.”

“She took her godhood seriously,” Vivec explained, his eyes falling closed for a moment. He turned to face the man, his golden half disappearing in shadows once more. Only the dark side remained visible, but there was nothing but pain written all over the painted face and shining in the one deep eye. “Of us three, she carried the mantle of a god most proudly, and perhaps was the most godly of us all.” Here he shrugged, his somewhat thin shoulders distorting the shadows as they moved. “She could not bear the thought of loosing it all. She knew that sooner or later it will come to this, we all knew ever since Dagoth Ur awoke under Red Mountain.”

“And yet she lost her senses,” Anthir added almost absent-mindedly, the words forming on his tongue on their own and getting out before he could stop them. “She went insane and wanted to be the only god left in Morrowind…” And then, after he took a calming breath: “And poor Sotha Sil paid for it…”

Vivec shook his head slowly. “In a way, he was no saner than she was, locking himself away from the rest of the world and shaping a new, better one on his own. A world of steel, metal and steam. He saw it all coming, and took it calmly…” He trailed off into silence.

New questions arose in the Nord’s mind, questions that bit even harder than the ones that were already there, that were shouting and demanded to be asked. Out of them, the man picked one. Staring deep into the eyes of the mer before him – the Dunmeri one clearly visible and gleaming in candlelight, and the Chimeri one hidden in shivering shadows – he asked:

“And are _you_ insane?”

The god laughed softly, his shoulders shuddering slightly. If Anthir had not heard the quiet laughter, he would think the elf is sobbing. But the answer came soon. “Me, Lord Nerevar?” he looked up at the Nord before him with a gentle smile on his weary face. “The madness that has claimed my sister and my brother has not come for me,” he replied smoothly, more than certain of what he is saying. “But that is only because I have never been like anyone else.”

Anthir could not help but tilt his head to one side a bit and try to survey the god from another angle, as if it would help him understand him at least a little better. It only distorted the fragile shadows even more. The only thing left was to ask the next question that came to mind: “And what _exactly_ do you have in mind?”

One corner of Vivec’s lips moved a bit further upward, changing the gentle smile into a truly sinister smirk. “Many legends about me cross the lands,” he said softly, clearly enjoying whatever game he was playing this time. “Surely you did not believe all of them to be true. Ask whatever you wish to know; I will answer your every question.”

The Nord could only hope this statement was sincere, as the words that formed in his mind might either earn him an honest reply that will finally make this thing stop bothering him, or earn him something in between a slap across the face to a dagger through the throat. But he did not think of it; before he could reconsider, he asked:

“Are the legends about you and Molag Bal true?”

Vivec burst out laughing. For a split second Anthir froze, worried someone will hear and rush over to the chamber alerted. But then he remembered that they are all alone in this huge palace; and even if they were not, the mer most certainly made sure that no one interrupts their little meeting. For now he just kept laughing, much to Anthir’s irritation, as this reaction meant nothing. Was he laughing because the Nord was foolish enough to believe such an absurd story? Or was he laughing because the guest had enough courage to ask? Or maybe something else?

The god wiped a tear out of his eye with the sleeve of his crimson robe. With a wide, cheerful smile on his face he asked: “You were wondering a lot about it, were you not?” This got a nod. Vivec returned it, his expression unchangeable. “It figures, Lord Nerevar, many do. And so few actually accept the fact that it is all true. Well, not entirely… I colourized it a lot when writing the sermons, but the basic idea is there.” Seeing the other’s eyes widening ever so slightly, he said: “Yes, Lord Nerevar. I belonged to him. I gave birth to his children.”

Anthir shook his head, but there was no use denying it. Something inside him, perhaps some inner instinct he inherited after the original Hortator, told him that this time Vivec is not lying. What reasons would he have to lie about this, anyway? It happened so long ago…

Also, he knew far better than to ask why did Vivec use the past tense.

“I can see there is more you wish to know,” the god nodded with a smirk. “Ask. I will answer.”

_Easy for you to say, ‘ask’…_

“It’s just…” he began uncertainly. Then he just sighed. “There are so many stories about you and your countless lovers that I started to wonder if there’s anyone you haven’t slept with, Vivec.”

Again, the Chimer laughed loudly and very sincerely. “Oh, Lord Nerevar… always the same, strict and unbelieving, yet curious and restless…” With his eyes slightly narrowed and lips curved in what just became a gentle smile, the god looked just like Anthir feared he sooner or later would. Lustful. Inviting. Seductive.

Inwardly, he gulped.

“I have had many, that’s true,” Vivec said, his voice as beautiful and deep as it was back at the meeting. This only increased the other’s fears; it was now clear to him what the mer wanted. “But once you live as long as I did, you realize that your loved ones go and you stay.”

“Molag Bal did not go,” Anthir said weakly, silently forming a plan of getting out of there before this goes too far.

“Oh, but Molag Bal is a different case…” Vivec shook his head. “I will not speak of him any further. But, coming back to your question… yes, there is someone I never had.”

And so it went too far. The Nord knew better than to just get up and run, as leaving this matter as it was now would solve nothing. The elf raised a golden hand slowly and brushed a loose strand of dark hair off the man’s forehead gingerly, staring into the brown eyes. “I never had Nerevar Indoril,” he whispered with a soft smile.

Anthir instantly shook his head and grabbed the hand by the wrist to push it back gently. He felt like he should say something right there and right then, but the only word that came was a ‘no’ that repeated itself in his mind over and over, muffling any other thought. Vivec’s smile vanished instantly and he pulled the hand back on his own; it was released and the dark hand gripped his wrist where Anthir was holding it just a second ago, like a prisoner that holds his wrist where the cuffs sank into the skin. He bit his lower lip, but managed to say:

“There is a hole in your heart, Nerevar…” The words came out as nothing more than a whisper. The Nord averted his gaze, staring at the candle that was now only an inch long, its melted wax covering the silver chandelier like sap covers the bark of an injured tree.

“A hole that is bleeding and will not heal on its own…” Vivec tried again and saw the man before him shudder. Colour drained from his face, as if he was ill, in fever. But he still kept quiet, so the golden hand touched his shoulder gently and was not slapped away this time. The tall Nord remained still.

“Let me heal that wound…”

Anthir shot bolt upright, standing up so abruptly that Vivec withdrew his hand and held it as if it was burnt. The man stared him down, nothing but fury painted on that thin human face. “And betray me like you always do?” he asked, panting in growing anger. “Like when you murdered me? Or lied about Martin?!”

The mer got to his feet slowly, like prey that shows the hunter it is unarmed and cannot fight. “How much do you know of Tiber Septim, Nerevar?”

This caught him off-guard. One thing he did not expect at that very moment was a question regarding general Talos…

Taking a deep breath to calm himself down at least a bit, Anthir said: “He reclaimed the Amulet of Kings and with it proclaimed himself ruler of the Third Empire of Tamriel,” he recited as if reading a historical book. Nodding more to himself than to the elf before him, he added: “Conquered all of Tamriel, including Morrowind which you gave to him willingly along with the Numidium in exchange for religious and governmental autonomy. Later became the youngest Divine, Talos, and the Eight became the Nine.”

Vivec was nodding his two-sided face all through this short speech. “Very good. All that is true. But did the scholars ever tell you how _exactly_ did he ascend to become a god?”

No, they have not.

“I assumed it had something to do with the Numidium… the Mantella…” Anthir said, but quickly trailed off, the mer’s expression telling him how wrong he is.

“The Numidium was but a golem,” he explained calmly, glad the other seemed slightly soothed by his confusion. “Steel and stone. Steel and stone cannot create gods, and neither can crystal, which was the Mantella. Not on their own.”

This made sense, Anthir concluded in his mind. The heart of Lorkhan created false, living gods because it was part of a real one. The Mantella was artificial. It never had the power of the heart, and most likely could not even match it.

“Then how did Tiber-“

“Me,” Vivec interrupted and caused the other to freeze in complete, deafening silence. “I helped him. One cannot become a true god in life. I should have known better.” He shook his head weakly. “I realized it back then, and I told it to Tiber Septim. With my help, and the powers of the Dwemer that were in his hands, he ascended to Aetherius.”

The Nord’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly. “You do not mean that you…”

“I killed him,” Vivec confirmed. “I sent him to the heavens where the Divines greeted him as an equal.”

Anthir could not believe his own ears. Half of his world crumbled around him. Lies, all lies!

But what he said out loud was just one word, one name that would not leave his mind and that hurt each time it was spoken: “Martin…”

“I lied about him,” the god said truthfully, lowering his eyes in slight shame. “I told my people I have slain him just like I have slain his ancestor Tiber, so that they would think of him as a god.”

“… Why…?”

Vivec’s shoulders trembled as he laughed, but the laughter was sad, and so was his face. “You do not understand, do you, Nerevar?” He looked into the man’s eyes to see only blank confusion. “I am mortal. Last of the three Almsivi. When I die, someone will have to take care of my people in my stead. Making them believe Martin Septim became a tenth Divine will make it easier for them to accept the faith and accept the Divines as their new guardians.”

Anthir felt as if he was going to throw up. A huge lump of ice settled itself in his stomach and apparently felt very comfortable in there. He, on the other hand, felt sick with confusion, disbelief and anger all at once. According to what he said some time ago, he should now grow a tail. Not only did the Dunmer start to accept the Empire, their most sacred and respected god-king actually _wanted_ them to. And wanted to be replaced by deities most thought blasphemous. It made no sense. None at all.

He wrapped his arms around himself, trying to choke back the urge to vomit onto the table. Vivec once again laid a hand on his shoulder, and felt how hard it was shivering. With honest care showing on his split face, he asked: “Nerevar… what is wrong?”

But there was no reply. The elf blinked slowly, and only once, and then nodded to himself. “I see. He was the one, wasn’t he?”

Anthir looked at him with watery eyes, pale as snow.

“The one who left such a painful wound in your heart.”

“He was,” came the barely audible answer. At this very moment the Nord only wished for this to stop, for the mer to stop tormenting him and for his heart to stop bleeding. Oh, Sithis, how he wanted it to stop. He would give everything to have someone by him who would heal the heart and let him rest, knowing that it all will be alright, but there was only one person he would accept as such. And Martin was not there.

“Nerevar…”

“Let go,” Anthir said, pushing the hand away surprisingly weakly. Vivec did not oppose; he pulled the hand back and held it up by his chest, all pride drained from him and all masks stuffed aside.

“Nerevar, please…”

“No.” With this, the Nord turned to leave. This was too much for him to bear. With quick steps, he headed for the door. Vivec extended a hand to grab him, but did not do it, the ‘no’ echoing in his mind like a thunder. He has seen it coming; still, it hurt all the same.

Anthir increased speed and was soon running along the corridor, headed for the palace’s main door and intending on getting there as soon as possible. He should have never come here. He should have stayed in his secure little chamber in his soft bed, and never, ever ask the questions he asked. It was too much; his head hurt, along with his heart, and his stomach was twisting itself at all angles, making him wish he could just throw up. Before he reached the door, there were tears rolling down his cheeks. When he rushed down the steps, jumping two at a time, his face was all wet.

Vivec wanted him. But this was no love, he told himself over and over, hoping he could really believe it. He _wanted_ to believe that the mer does not really love him, only desire him. And as much as he craved the warmth, the touch and the blissful oblivion in another’s embrace, Vivec would never have him. His heart clung to someone else.

Tenth Divine or not, Martin Septim was still his lover.

His Martin whom he would bring back. There was nothing in the world he wanted more, and if bringing him back meant manipulating all of Morrowind and bending them down to his will one way or the other, so be it. Vivec made him understand what he truly needs and what he truly wants, and he would not be himself if he gave it up. He will do it, whether they want it or not.

Sithis was watching him from somewhere above and he knew that the dark god approves. Restlessness and ruthlessness were what he favoured in his followers. And they were only assets that benefited him when it came to fulfilling one’s own goals.

Before he got to his chamber, the strength given to him by pain and anger alone started to wane, but he still got to the bed. When he collapsed onto it, still dressed in the sweaty linen clothes, he almost instantly fell into a deep, steady sleep.

And he dreamt of the Divines, and of his Martin that was now among them.


	11. The Heart and the Golem

Anthir dreamed of moist lips and warm bodies and hands entwined with his own. But the entire vision was but a blur; he could see no face, hear no voice. He did not know to whom the lips and the body and the hands belonged, he knew not if it is the man his heart clings to or the mer that tries to force himself into that place. The dream was long, vivid and terrifyingly real.

When he woke, he did not remember a thing.

 

He woke up late, drenched in sweat and hot under the bedcovers that suddenly felt amazingly heavy. He was not at all rested; in fact, he never felt this tired. He decided to wash himself in cold water; the chill would not harm him and definitely help him clear his head. As he poured water over his hair, heavy with grease of the past few days, he tried to pull his thoughts together and form a sensible image from what he could recall. The events of last night rang loud, but they were only shards, loose threads of a web that should have been a memory. He could hardly recall what happened in that accursed, tall palace. 

As the water washed sweat off his body, some of the shards started moving into places and form something that could have been a mirror. In it, Anthir saw the painted face of the Chimeri god, slightly distorted, and clenched a fist. Suddenly everything became clear and, even though he had only a frame of the mirror, the general memory of what happened last night, he wondered if he will be able to look at Vivec ever again. He feared to look into those eyes again, he feared to see anything that could show on that face that seemed to hide a thousand different feelings at once.

He feared seduction.

The signet robe that marked him as Hortator was in no better condition than himself. He wore it only two or three days, not longer, he was sure of it. But lately things went so fast and were so stressful the robe was heavy with his sweat and smelled. Shaking his head, Anthir threw it onto the bed for the servants to find and wash it later. They would do it, they definitely would; one wave of a hand and they will jump into fire for him. It is not like he would order them to; but they can start with washing his signet robe.

As for now, he had to find himself something else to wear. Robes of the Black Hand… right. Not like no one will recognize them. And walking around marking yourself as a child of Sithis was far from reasonable, especially in Morrowind. Not only will his closest advisors – or those that thought themselves his advisors – be rather put off, if not disgusted, but you never know if there are no Morag Tong spies around you. If there was one thing Anthir would not like to have, was a dagger in his throat.

In the end, he chose one of the simpler robes the priests have prepared for him a few days ago, when giving him this chamber. Blue was not exactly his colour, he thought, but that was all he had; priests of the Tribunal wore light blue, so it seemed obvious that they will have little more. The robes Anthir found in his closet were somewhat richer than those he usually saw worn around the temple, most likely belonging to some high-ranked official of the Almsivi Temple before they were handed to him. They had to do, he concluded as he put them on. He still had the ring to distinguish himself from other priests.

He never even managed to get to the common room for something to eat when he was urged to follow by one of the Indoril guardsmen. Growling inwardly for not even being allowed breakfast, he followed into the High Fane where the huge table has been replaced with one half its size and some smaller desks set around by the walls. On the table laid a huge map of Vvardenfell, right next to one charting the entire land of Morrowind. On one of the smaller desks, out of the corner of his eye, Anthir caught a glimpse of a map of Tamriel as a whole, with each province named and all most significant places marked. Gathered around were a few Dunmer, each clad in a different armour. Among them was Eryn Almari, his helmet resting on the table; it was obvious that others around him were also commanders and war veterans.

They straightened up as Anthir entered the Fane, each of them bringing a fist to their hearts in a salute.

“Lord Hortator,” one of them said “I am Verim of the Dres and I wish to welcome you among us. You honour us with your presence.”

“At ease,” the Nord replied with a nod, not knowing what else to say. Seldom did he hear such things, even in Cyrodiil after the siege of the Imperial City when people proclaimed him a hero of the Empire. That was one load of lies, he kept telling himself, as the real hero was not him, but Martin Septim.

He shook his head to dismiss the thoughts.

“We have started to prepare a battle plan while you rested, my Lord,” Verim said, motioning towards the biggest map. It depicted Vvardenfell and Anthir was almost surprised to see how accurate it was. During all his long travels across the island he never held a map this good, but it stood to reason that one used by the military must be better then those available to travellers.

Everything concentrated on Red Mountain, of course. Small figures carefully carved in brass have been already set around the volcano, most of them concentrating on the southern side near the place marked as Ghostgate. A few were placed to the north; they seemed different, but Anthir’s tired eyes, additionally weakened by hunger, could not make out the details. He pretended to eye the plans carefully and waited for someone to speak.

Eryn was first. “This is what we agreed on so far, my Lord,” he said turning from Anthir to the brass soldiers. “Our main force would approach Red Mountain from the south,” here he pointed at the figures cramped together near the gate “and we would send a small group of scouts to check the situation north.”

Anthir was nodding as he heard this. He then pointed at a random tactician that seemed rather idle and said, “You.” As the mer stood bolt upright, the Nord added: “You go to the kitchen and bring me something to eat before I collapse over your brilliant battle plans.”

Taken aback, the commander – of House Redoran, Anthir now recognized the armour – went out rather quickly, and the others only stared. The man turned back towards the big map before him and eyed it once again. “So, what do you know of the current situation on Red Mountain?” he asked with eyes slightly narrowed.

“Not as much as we would want to, Lord Hortator,” a robe-clad Dunmer said. Anthir was somewhat surprised to know that the liberal and completely independent from one another Telvanni could actually have a common military commander. Nevertheless, he nodded to encourage the elf to continue. A dark hand trailed a thin line that ran around the volcano and surrounding ashen mountains. “Since the destruction of Ghostgate, which regrettably left no survivors, the fence is inactive. That left us to ponder from which direction we should approach Red Mountain, and as you now see, we decided to proceed the simplest way.”

The Nord did not respond immediately. At first, he wondered how can this mer speak of such a tragedy like the razing of Ghostgate so… matter-of-factly, as if it was nothing. But then he decided that he needs to get used to it. He himself was a warrior, an assassin even, but never a soldier. He slew those that had to be slain, be it because they wanted his head or by the will of Sithis, but never did he treat slaughter like something trivial. But in the army things were different, he concluded with a heavy heart. People died at war, and you had to take it as a given. Whenever you made a decision, someone would die for it.

“We can approach from any direction, then?” he asked, raising his eyes to the Redoran commander who nodded in reply. “But they can also leave in any direction and we might as well miss them.”

“We cannot afford to divide our forces into four, my Lord,” Dres Verim said rather firmly, certain that is what his sovereign had in mind. Anthir only shook his head.

“No, we cannot,” he agreed. “Have you determined where the daedra are stationed?”

“No, my Lord,” the Hlaalu commander, a Dunmer dressed in an armour of his House but adorned with the Imperial crest, said with a hint of regret in his voice. “Our scouts had not returned, either slain by the daedra, by the remnants of the Sharmat’s minions, or worse, claimed by corprus.”

The Nord held a shiver caused by the sound of that word. Corprus was not something they could trifle with. Now he wondered – was it reasonable to lead his armies to a place blighted by corprus, by the disease that altered body and mind alike and could not, by any means, be cured? Just because he himself was safe did not mean everyone else around him is. They risked a lot. Would he dare?

He would. Too many things have already stood in his way. Selfish and ruthless he may be, but he hated to leave loose ends.

They would march for Red Mountain nevertheless.

Nodding to himself, he pointed at a red spot near the very heart of the ashen area. “They are here,” he announced. “Underground, in the very fortress in which Dagoth Ur once slept.”

“How can you be so sure, my Lord?” Eryn asked with only a slight hint of doubt in his voice. Anthir’s expression was so firm he dared not say another word, just remained there and waited for his sovereign to speak.

“I have no proof,” the Nord said with a slight shrug. “But I will bet my ring that this is what the daedra came for.” He looked around to check the reaction of his war advisors. Each of them, including the one in Helseth’s royal guard armour, stared at him blankly, apparently ready to accept and follow his every command, regardless of what his decision is.

How blind can loyalty be.

The Redoran commander entered the Fane, carrying a silver plate that felt heavy with fruit, Dunmeri bread and guar meat. He set it on the huge table in front of Anthir, who only nodded and picked up a fruit he could not even name and bit into it, deciding it is better not to ask what it is or where it came from. His stomach demanded food and everything would have done the trick. 

“The daedra came for _something_ ,” he announced firmly, eyeing the gathered commanders once again. They all straightened up, as if overwhelmed by his stare. Titles sure meant something here, Anthir concluded. “The only thing that could have made Mehrunes Dagon send an army towards the mountain was either the heart of Lorkhan or Akulakhan, or both.” He paused, but there was no reaction. Not even a breath that would be louder than others, or a blink of the eye. “You know of both, my friends,” he said in a surprisingly low voice. “You know of them and you realize it is why the daedra attacked you in the first place.”

He took another healthy bite of the fruit as he waited for the commanders to react.

“Neither of those is there,” said the royal guard, apparently sent here by king Helseth himself as the promised aid. His voice was very uncertain, almost trembling. It had to take all of the Dunmer’s willpower to keep it calm. “They have been destroyed when you have defeated the Sharmat years ago, Lord Hortator,” he added to break the silence that crept in amazingly quickly.

_Tell me something I don’t know_ , Anthir thought bitterly as he set the remnants of the odd fruit onto the silver plate and eyed another one. “Who told you this?” he asked out loud, his eyes fixed on the promising food.

“Master Vivec,” said the Redoran veteran without hesitation. The Nord turned his eyes to the elf slowly, one eyebrow raised. Here we go, he is going to cause chaos if not civil war, but this has to be said.

“Vivec has not been there when I challenged the Sharmat,” he announced in a low voice, eyeing the soldiers around him. “He has no idea about what happened then.” During the silent pause that followed he could feel his own heart beating somewhere near the throat; the faces around him were all covered by helmets that hid it all, and perhaps it was better, as he held no desire to see the expressions his statement, so simple and yet so bold, caused. Only the face of Eryn Almari of the Indoril was visible, and it carried an expression that slowly started betraying pain and fear for what comes next. Saying such things inside the main complex of the Tribunal Temple was far from reasonable; but will they judge Nerevar reborn, proclaimed so by Vehk himself?

“Vivec assumed the heart and Akulakhan both have been destroyed,” Anthir went on, his heart beating faster and faster “and he has reasons to do so. But it is not entirely true.”

They stared at him, and even through the helmets he could feel their stone gazes drill into him questioningly. Bracing himself, and knowing how he hurt the religious feelings of some of them and also realizing what their god-king himself thinks of this, he added:

“Akulakhan crumbled into a pool of lava, but when I left the mountain, it was still there. I find it unlikely that the heat has damaged it. It has not harmed it for decades, hundreds of years perhaps, so why should it suddenly start?”

A few armoured heads nodded in acknowledgement and silent agreement. “And the heart?” asked the voice of Dres Verim.

“I do not know,” Anthir replied truthfully, staring down at the brass figures to avoid meeting the hidden gazes that felt heavy as lead on his shoulders. He felt as if we was disappointing them somehow, and for some reason it weighed heavily on him, even though he already decided what shall be done. Sending them to die in vain just because he was mistaken hardly seems to be an appealing perspective.

But then again, someone will die. Mistake, combat or corprus, someone has to die.

“The heart was stabbed,” he announced slowly. “So even if it somehow survived the fall into a fiery pool of lava, it is as dead as anything can be.”

Eryn Almari shook his head slightly, and Anthir’s blood froze that very moment. “Lord Hortator, if I may be so bold… you are suggesting that we risk the lives of our soldiers, and cannot even judge the reality of the reason for which we would do it?”

_Time to lie,_ the Nord thought. Aloud, he said: “I have done some scrying before I rested last night. If nothing changes before we reach the mountain, remnants of Akulakhan are still in the Sharmat’s fortress. That must be what they are seeking. And we will find them there.”

“So you decide to risk it, Hortator of the Five Halls?” asked the royal guard. Even under his helmet that obscured the entire face, not showing even a glitter of the blood-red eyes, Anthir could see that his lies were far from convincing. But what is done is done.

“I do,” he said simply, surveying the gathered commanders with his eyes slightly narrowed. He could only hope he looked firm enough, as he never even dreamt of a royal look. Face it; he was no royalty, Nerevar or not. “We will proceed as you suggested. We will approach Red Mountain from the south, through the ruins of Ghostgate, but I will not risk sending scouts. The place is not safe for small groups.”

They stared at him mutely. This was it, he concluded as he once again drew breath for a split second. Time to give the final orders.

“Assemble your troops,” he said calmly. “I want to hear when they are ready, and that better be soon.”

Saluting and bowing their heads, one by one they left the chamber. Their ornate armours gleamed blood-red as they stirred the flames of candles set on each side of the door. Anthir remained where he was, with arms crossed on his chest and eyes fixed on the very heart of the Vvardenfell map, where the brass figures stood. Moments stretched into eternity, and after only gods knew how long the echoing footsteps finally ceased. Only then did the Nord turn away from the chart, shaking his head weakly, and headed back to his private chambers. He left the door unlocked and the battle plans untouched.

Before they march out for Red Mountain, there is one more thing he needs to do. The last of the Living Gods spoke of the Nine, and spoke of them in a way one would deem impossible, insane even. But he heard it with his very own ears, and he had to know.

The black dragon of Ebonheart held a secret.

He will know. He had to know.


	12. Through the Mist

Caius Cosades stared out the window, his chin resting on one of his hands. In the other he was clenching a piece of paper, now slightly crumpled in his grip. Life outside changed and was never to be the same again.

Kragenmoor had barely started to rebuild after the victory over Mehrunes Dagon, as it was one of the fortresses in Morrowind most devastated during the daedric rampage across Tamriel. Cosades could still clearly remember it all… The screams still echoed in his mind, and even though he was no stranger to war and bloodshed, this time it was different. They were overwhelmed; the daedra struck from nowhere and kept coming, limitless, endless waves of a deadly sea. He still remembered the heat of the flames as they devoured dwellings and stores and warehouses all around him; the burns on his left arm will probably never fully heal and leave rather unpleasant scars, but he can live with it. And through all those years he still has left he will remember the smell of burning flesh of people dying in the flames, and the air heavy with dust and ash, so similar to the storms once typical for the island but absent on the mainland.

They put up a resistance, of course. Defending the fortress and the town around it cost him only a finger, for which he thanked all Nine and any other god that would listen, but at the same time he was well aware that many paid a much higher price for that victory. So many have fallen before the sacrifice of Martin Septim, of whom the entire Empire now spoke…

Despite everything, Cosades grinned to himself. Old Uriel, Nine bless his soul, did a wonderful job keeping the boy hidden, and for that, all of Tamriel shall be grateful to him till the end of times. If not for Martin, there would be no Tamriel, no world to live in. Who would think that an illegitimate child, a bastard, instead of causing a scandal would have become the greatest hero the Empire has ever known? Well, maybe he is exaggerating, but Martin’s deed seems to be the most important of the three eras of the Empire…

As even after death, the last Dragonborn is causing miracles. A proof of one was right before Caius’ eyes, right there in Kragenmoor. A construction of white stone that rose taller above other buildings. It still had no doors, no windows, was little more than stones set on one another around a wooden skeleton, but the people already looked up at it with awe and some strange gratefulness. Finishing this construction will still need a lot of time, but they were ready for it. They were willing. Even though architects were Imperial by race, or at least hailing from the Imperial Province of Cyrodiil, those who came up with this initiative where the Hlaalu, lords of Kragenmoor. And, what is even more surprising, those that built, that carried the stones, carved the wood and put them together to form a purely Imperial building, were Dunmer and Dunmer alone. No more than a year ago this would have been considered impossible, irrational, insane even… but here it was, happening before the widely opened eyes of the entire Tamriel.

Right here, at the very border of Morrowind and Cyrodiil, the ever distrustful and conservative dark elves united to build a temple that will be the house and sanctuary of Akatosh, the Dragon God of Time, the first and greatest of the Nine Divines. Could it really be that they cast away their faith in the Tribunal, and perhaps their anticipated Daedric Princes, in favour of the Aedra? Could Akatosh’s descent to his temple in the Imperial City really convert the stubborn Dunmer? It seemed a miracle…

But then again, gods were supposed to make miracles.

The temple was far from finished, yes, but the round altar has already been carved in stone and set where its place was, in the heart of the building, and people already came to kneel before it and pray. Some went as far as kissing the carved stone, but most only muttered to themselves, and a keen ear would catch the names of Akatosh and of Martin Septim.

The blood of the dragon had its say.

Caius smiled again as he ran a hand over his head, almost entirely bald save for a thin line of grey hair that ran around his head just above the ears. He then looked at the paper he kept clenching in his fist and blinked at it almost apologetically as he noticed how crumpled it now is. He stood up to place it on a desk carefully as if it was in pain, and sat right opposite it.

Supporting his chin on entwined hands, he pondered. The day was bright, the sun high above the mountains, and the air fresh and clear. In Kragenmoor, high in the Valus Mountains, one could already feel they are a part of the great Tamrielic Empire. The harsh climate and inhospitable wildlife of Morrowind had little say here, giving way to Nibenese flora which ended abruptly as the flat lands became the mountains. They were now cloaked in fresh, pure snow, which of course did not stop the people from continuing to rebuild their homes and raise the temple.

As if waking from a trance, Caius Cosades suddenly grabbed a piece of parchment and pulled an inkwell closer to himself. Dipping a slightly battered brown quill in the ink, he started to write.

 

_My friend,_

_I am glad to have heard from you again. It has been too long, has it not? I am very happy to know you are well, as I am afraid that I myself am growing too tired of all this. I know not how you found me, but it proves we were right about you all along. I guess I will stay where I am for a while before I return home to Cyrodiil. Everyone wishes to die at home, right? And I realize these words probably brought a grimace to your face, my friend, but worry not. Everyone dies, and my time is growing shorter with each passing day. I am aging, but I know I will die happy._

_A new dawn shines upon Tamriel. We have entered a new age. I know how things look around the throne, and I will not speak of Emperor Ocato at this time. Do not consider this a treason – we are sworn to the Dragonborn, and he is not one. I also know what the provinces think of their allegiance to the Dragon Throne, but I am also certain that nothing is as bad as it seems. Mark my words, Morrowind will not recede from the Empire. You have no idea how shocked I was, and I do not think the news managed to fully sink in yet, but to your question I can give a simple answer: yes. The Dunmer have really started to accept the cult of Cyrodiil, the Nine Divines. A temple of Akatosh is being erected outside my house as I write this. Miracles do happen, indeed._

_What surprised me most, though, is that – if what you say is true – Lord Vivec himself has accepted this faith for his land. But I dare not inquire further, my friend, I realize this matter is far more complicated than it seems. Be it as it may, what I know is that the Dunmer will sooner or later fully convert to the worship of our own gods, and without much intervention at that. And, with you as the prophet and war chief, I am certain the province will not recede._

_May your heart be true to the Empire. Hold Morrowind in a strong grip, my friend, and all shall be well. May the Nine bless you,_

_the Spymaster._

 

Cosades reread the message thrice. By the time he finished most of the ink had dried. With a piece of old cloth he cleaned what was still wet and rolled the parchment into a neat, thin scroll. Lacking a seal, he tied it with a bit of rope he managed to find on his desk, not even remembering how it got there. But that did not really bother him, no; he just stood up and pondered some more, tapping the scroll against his palm absent-mindedly. Then he stormed off towards the door, intending on finding a messenger trustworthy enough to carry this letter.

 

 

Anthir stuffed the key back into his special little pouch. Now that the door was locked and he safe in his private chambers, he could try it. By the soft bed he had been given by the priests laid sacks he brought with himself from Cyrodiil, not even unpacked. Kneeling, the Nord started searching and shuffling through them. It was with slight disappointment that he noticed that his favourite alchemical alembic has been damaged somewhere along the way and now bore a huge crack. And it was no surprise that the thing he was actually looking for laid in the sack on the very bottom of his little pile.

Under the worn cowl sewn of grey leather, whose gently glowing runes illuminated the inside of the sack, was a round bundle of cloth. Anthir took it and unwrapped the cloth, under which an orb of pure crystal glowed with faint purple light. Hugging Savilla’s Stone to his chest, the Nord made his way through the mess he made during his search and set the crystal on his working desk. It rolled from one side to the other for a few more moments before stopping dead in one place.

Sitting in the chair before it, Anthir pondered. He has never done this before, and had no idea how to start. His skills and knowledge of magicka were hardly amazing, either; he only learned what considers concealing. But then again… Count Corvus managed, and he was no mage himself.

It is worth a try.

The glow of Savilla’s Stone created a faint, delicate aura around the crystal, which reached from the inside and dissolved into the air an inch above the surface. It seemed to move; like clouds during a storm, it whirled and circled, forming shapes here and there that distorted as quickly as they showed. Anthir stared into the depths of the orb, hoping to make something out of those shapes, or maybe see something entirely different. He was not sure what he expected.

The mist kept moving, twirling and swirling. Anthir caught a gleam of red out of the corner of his eye and instinctively blinked. When he opened his eyes again, the redness was gone and he began to wonder if he has really seen it or were his over-concentrated eyes playing tricks on him. But there it was again, gleaming somewhere else and slowly moving to the centre. It gradually grew as the purplish fog around it dissolved and moved away like a maelstrom circles on the ocean; inside it, slowly, formed shapes and colours.

A vision. He actually managed to have a vision…

Narrowing his eyes even further, Anthir made out the dark, ashen hills that painted themselves before him. Could it be Red Mountain? The whole sight was slightly blurred and somewhat unstable, dissolving for a fraction of a second to reform again. The redness remained somewhere in the back of the scene, and he concluded that it must be the lava of the dormant volcano which was indeed Red Mountain itself. He wanted to believe that.

The purple mist came again and covered the vision which then seemed to have started moving. Behind the all-obscuring fog the images closed in on the mountain and seemed to delve inside. Darkness fell and the only source of the non-existent light was what seemed to be molten lava deep beneath the volcano. Then the purple clouds moved aside and revealed a sight Anthir has hoped to forget, but never could.

The chamber he now beheld through the crystal was huge, possibly the very heart of the mountain. A narrow stone pathway circled around from the very bottom to the top of the shaft that led to the outside world but for some reason gave absolutely no light; must have been the ash and the stones inside the shaft. Anthir remembered this place very well, though without too many details. But he knew what laid below, in a huge pool of lava that bubbled sinisterly. Not entirely sure he wants to, he forced his mind to concentrate on it and the vision revealed what he asked it to. In the fiery liquid laid chunks of stone and what resembled steel; here and there Anthir noticed something white, like a bone, and a piece of what once was a face. Bits and pieces of what was meant to become divine, become a living god.

Anumidium. Akulakhan.

Anthir was right when he said that time and fire cannot harm the golem. It was still there, just like he last saw it when it crumbled. Here and there the stone bore scars and scratches, and the steel skeleton shone no more, but this had to be it. It survived, remained, _waited_. But Akulakhan itself was not enough.

Not enough…

Something gleamed. Just a fraction of a second, long enough to notice but not enough to locate. The Nord’s heart stopped and eyes watered as he forced to focus both his sight and his mind even more.

_Come…_

Anthir shuddered and immediately turned around on his chair, but he saw no one. His chamber was as messy as he left it after his search for Savilla’s Stone, covered in clothes, satchels – some of which ended up untied and let loose its herbal contents – gems and crystals of all sorts, and he could have sworn none of those things could speak. He stood up and looked around the chamber slowly, but he could make out nothing. No change in the air, no shadow deeper than the others, no flicker of light. Nothing that would indicate someone has somehow entered the chamber. And yet he heard it; something spoke to him, called him to come. Heart beating against his chest hard like a drum, the Nord turned back slowly and once again gazed into the crystal.

Something was gleaming again. Down in what used to be a hand of the golem, a half-closed palm that once embraced the divine essence sealed within Red Mountain, laid… _something_. Something that struggled – yes, struggled is a good word – to catch his attention, to reveal itself to him.

 _Come…_ the voice said again, but this time Anthir did not turn.  Could it be that whatever he just saw tried to call him? He never heard of things talking to mages during scrying… but then again, who was he to know?

_Come… you need… me and… I need… you…_

Anthir gulped. Whatever it was that talked to him chilled him to the bone. The voice – if it could be called a voice – was deep and… odd, like scratching of claws against raw stone. But he listened; he craved for more. He wanted to hear it again, to wait till it tells him where to go and what to look for and where it could be. But the voice said no more and the Nord’s heart sank. He needed to know, he needed to find out more, he wanted to, he desired it, craved it…

The gleam in the golem’s palm returned and seemed even stronger, like the moon on a starless sky or a torch in complete darkness. It calmed him, soothed his mind. He wished he could just extend a hand and take it right there and right then, claim it as his own…

It was there. Akulakhan still held it, like it did for countless years before. Not the whole, no; just a piece, perhaps a single string. But it was there. It really was…

The heart of Lorkhan!


	13. Emperors and King

Too slow. It all went far too slow. Anthir could wait little longer; the suspense overwhelmed him, toyed with his mind. As he waited for the Great Houses to assemble their armies, he could do little more than just wander around aimlessly, dismiss irritating priests that either wished to ask him questions about this and that or tried to force their help onto him, most likely in order to gain his favour… and of course think. Through all those idle and unimaginably boring days he could not stop himself from thinking.

That voice… that eerie, metallic voice still echoed in his mind and called him, summoned him to come. Each time he recalled that blurred vision, that strange image, he felt like he has seen it before. He has, in fact. Has Dagoth Ur – no, Voryn Dagoth not summoned him to the Heart Chamber before, over seven years ago? It all felt so terrifyingly familiar… With Savilla’s Stone stuffed deep in a bag and wrapped in a thick layer of cloth, and not enough courage to gaze into its depths once more, he still recalled that chilling, seductive voice. It would not leave him, not at day and not at night. He had no strange dreams, no nightmares about Voryn Dagoth and Akulakhan. But he still heard the voice whisper somewhere in the back of his mind.

It all took too long! Too slow, far too slow. He wanted this to be over; to get to the heart and make the voice stop. The heart. Oh, how he desired the heart… Now that he knew it is there, that it is waiting and _calling_ him to come, he craved it more than ever before. He could already feel it in his hands, his grip tightening around whatever is left of the essence of Lorkhan. It would be his. It had to be. But he did not realize it. He desired the heart, but could no longer recall the reasons. His mind was clouded by the alien purple mist, the gleaming redness and the voice. He did not even know that… but if someone asked him why he wants it so much, he would be unable to respond.

He almost forgot Martin. He almost forgot Vivec. The only thing that counted was the heart.

But they needed more time, and he could do nothing but wait. He spent days wandering around the city. He quite enjoyed visiting stores and freelance merchants. Even though he did not buy a single good from them, listening to their boasting and comparing their wares helped him calm his mind for at least a moment. He had to give his mind some other thoughts to focus on, and anything would have done the trick. But he could not walk in and out of the same store day by day just like that.

So this time he decided to change his strategy a bit. Instead of leaving the temple complex, he remained within it and straight after his rich morning meal – consisting of guar meal, which hardly went through his throat – he headed straight for the library of Vivec himself.

When it came to forgetfulness, this was paradise. Tall bookcases were lined along the walls and set neatly inside the huge chamber, forming little alleys through which one could walk like in an organized maze in search of knowledge. On said shelves there was hardly any free space – books were squeezed one by one so tightly it was sometimes difficult to take one out. Most of them, as Anthir soon noticed, stood in pairs or in threes with their identical copies, but some were singular, as if unique. Where shelves were set a bit more apart stood small tables and desks on which filled inkwells and sets of three or four quills in all colours and shades waited, already prepared. And it was silent. The only sound, echoing in this silence like thunder beneath a mountain, was the sound of pages being turned and quills scratching against parchment as a few Dunmeri scholars read, wrote and researched.

Stepping carefully not to disturb them, Anthir made his way through the small shelve alleys and checking books at random, or picking those that somehow attracted his attention, be it by cover, title or otherwise.

He had to admit that Vivec owned quite a formidable collection of tomes. But when you live as long as he does, you have time for such things. Perhaps it was a hobby of his.

There were books on Tamriel as a whole, its geography, history, lore and legends. Anthir found detailed and carefully sketched maps with all major cities and settlements marked on them, others with landmarks he recognized only from stories about the usurpation of the throne by Jagar Tharn, and others with all regions and districts of each province carefully outlined. There were of course maps of each province separately. Some of them had names neatly written in the Cyrodilic alphabet, usually with their Dunmeri equivalents in smaller letters, but – for some reason – most used the Daedric glyphs. Anthir found sketches of symbols, icons and statues, descriptions of pantheons and singular deities from all over the Empire. There were the Nine, the Divines introduced in Cyrodiil by Alessia at the beginning of the First Empire and ascended Tiber Septim; there were the eight on which Alessia based her cult, the eight gods worshipped by first Nedes from Atmora; and, of course, there were single, more peculiar deities such as Anthir’s own Dread Father, the Serpent God of Death, Sithis. Each and every one of them described with as many information and details as the scholars could gather, which naturally meant that some of those gods were still veiled in a thick fog of mystery. There were legends and tales of great heroes, kings and epic battles. Anthir even found some lore of his own Nordic people, such as the songs about king Wulfhart or the myths of creation as seen by the Nords.

It came as no surprise that the Tribunal had its own private bookcase. There the librarians placed everything regarding the three Living Gods and their Three Daedric Anticipations. There were separate tomes about Azura, Boethiah and Mephala, each of them also describing how the Dunmeri Triune represent these Daedric Lords in the mortal plane. There were the 36 lessons of Vivec carefully written down and neatly set in order on the top shelf, the sermons both obscure and fascinating, both ridiculous and oddly wise. There were the homilies of Almalexia, her short teachings and what seemed like guidelines for children. There were poems signed by Vehk, tales of Red Mountain and of the Sharmat, and of course of the House of Troubles, the four Daedric Lords that refused to support the Tribunal. Their names sounded like curses when pronounced by the Dunmer, and the ‘Four Corners’ were recognized as Molag, Dagon, Malac and Sheog.

Nearly two full bookcases were devoted to the sixteen Daedra Princes and their realms in the waste known as Oblivion. There were tomes describing Oblivion as a whole, its waters and the fate of spirits of slain Daedra Lords. Other books described all Daedra and their spheres, others concentrated on each separately and gave detailed descriptions of their realms – or more like, those that are known, which proved to be very few. There was something wrong with one of them, though. A certain, small tome held nothing more than names of the Daedric Princes. But against all other sources, this one gave not sixteen, but seventeen names. And the seventeenth was one Anthir has never seen before.

Jyggalag?

“Excuse me, sera,” sounded a voice. The Nord nearly dropped the small book out of sheer shock, but composed himself soon enough to keep it in his grip. He turned to see who was speaking. It appeared to be a mer tall enough to even an Imperial human, dressed in lavish navy blue robes that fell about his small frame lazily and reached down to the very floor. He bowed his head with respect. “Is there something I can help you with, Moon-and-Star?” he asked politely.

Anthir hastily set the book back on its place on the shelf. “No, no, thank you,” he said, trying to keep himself from mumbling. “I’m just… looking around…”

It was clear from the mer’s expression that he did not believe that, however true that story might be. But, most likely out of politeness alone, he nodded slightly and took a step backwards. “Ask me if you need anything, Moon-and-Star,” he said, continuing on his way away from the Nord. “This humble priest is always at your service.”

 _Sure you are_ , Anthir thought but returned the nod. Everyone in this temple was more than well aware what he thinks of them all, so it was no use to manifest his feelings about it any further. Truth be told, he needed them, and now they believed they needed him as well. This worked as long as they did not learn the truth behind this little plot of his.

He quickly moved to another bookcase and froze. There was no mistaking that. On the backs of tomes set neatly in a row before him there was nothing, no letters, no symbols. But one of them stood with its cover facing the disbelieving Nord. It was bound with reddened leather, and on it, in a slightly lighter shade, someone carefully painted a symbol. A symbol very well known to Anthir – the angular dragon-like creature that faced due right and stretched its wings. Above its head hung a diamond shape; seeing it, the Nord absent-mindedly clutched the satchel at his side as if to check if the broken Amulet was still there. This red dragon was the last thing he expected to see in this place, sacred to the Triune and opposing all Empire. But it was there, stared back at him; the Imperial dragon, Akatosh and his blessed Amulet, symbol of the Septims and their Dragonblood. 

Anthir immediately picked that book up and opened it on a random page, just to see what it contained.

What he saw was far more than he expected. He could not believe his eyes at first, flipping pages to and fro almost furiously. Finally, after a few moments of fluttering sounds he calmed down and focused on the neatly written text. Septims. The entire dynasty described in smallest details, each and every one of Tamriel’s rulers and their relatives. There were diagrams and genealogy trees illustrating the complicated relations between the members of the bloodline. Anthir quickly skipped to the last pages. Several were blank, most likely awaiting a scribe to add more information as time passes. He flipped those back and stopped where the records ended. There was Uriel VII, gods bless his soul, and his three sons, all marked dead on the same day. What surprised Anthir most is that whoever wrote this book was bold enough to note the three heirs probably were not of the Dragonborn, being born during the long usurpation of the Imperial throne by Jagar Tharn, who actually got a large section for himself in this book. There was no mention of Martin, however, not even any woman that could have been his mother. Apparently the author of this curious book did not manage to add the information yet, even though it has been almost a year since the end of the Oblivion Crisis.

Anthir moved back one more page and froze again. He did not expect to find this. He stared at the parchment for a long moment, his eyebrows moving closer as his eyes narrowed in suspicion and disbelief. But there was no denying it.

He made his way towards one of the small working desks and sat down. With the book open before him on that one certain page, he pulled a piece of blank parchment, dipped a quill in the inkwell by his side and started writing.

He might need a copy later on.

 

Barenziah watched her son pace around the chamber with his arms crossed behind his back. His royal cape fluttered behind him as he picked up speed, his handsome bearded face lowered and fixed at some mobile point on the floor before him. 

“You worry too much,” she said as softly as her aged, slightly croaking voice allowed. Helseth did not even look at her.

“I have reasons, Mother,” he replied calmly, although his expression suggested he feels otherwise.

“Every ruler has both friends and foes,” the Queen Mother shook her head slightly, but her son did not see that. He paused, tapping two fingers against his chin. Then, after a long moment of silence, he finally replied:

“That is not the case, Mother.” He narrowed his crimson eyes, as if focusing at some point on the wall before him, “There is no problem if the ruler knows who is the friend and who is the foe. But with him, I am not certain at all.”

Barenziah let out a soft sigh. She tightened the woven belt that ran around her waist and held her royal black and silver robes in place, just to find her something to do and not stare at her son. Looking at his face when he was troubled or angered tended to earn one a yell or sometimes even a night in jail. Helseth was very careful about whom he keeps close, and once angered, he tended to forget himself.

“He has aided you in the past,” she said softly. “Strengthened your rule. I see no reason to fear him.”

“It was over seven years ago,” Helseth replied as he started pacing around the chamber again, his footsteps surprisingly heavy as for such light clothing. “I believe he was not aware of the weight of his station back then. But he is now. He has grown… influential.”

“He has always been,” the Queen Mother reminded him, speaking slowly and carefully choosing words. “The Hortator has always had power and influence in the lands of our people.”

The king snorted as if irritated, but said nothing. Barenziah shook her head again, sighing inwardly. “You are a Hlaalu. He is loyal to the Empire, and as long as you ally with the Empire, he is not your enemy.”

Helseth eyed her slowly and his expression softened as he saw the care and concern painted on her tired, wrinkled face. She has gone through enough on her own; involving her in this could be too much. “Mother…” he said slowly, his voice still rather harsh, yet calming down. “He is not my subject. Even though historical sources cannot agree on this, I believe the original Hortator was far superior even to the accursed Triune. He is my equal, if not more. I cannot demand his obedience.”

Relieved by the slight change of her son’s mood, the Queen Mother nodded in silent agreement. “He is but a war leader, though,” she stated carefully. “The throne belongs to you.”

The king snorted again and approached a window that overlooked most of his city. Despite its official name, Almalexia, it was _his_ city, his Mournhold, in his lands, Morrowind. The sun was high up, yet barely visible through the thick grey clouds that gathered over the capital. It will rain soon, and it was likely the rain would soon become a storm. The weather has been awful the last few days, since Helseth began gathering his troops here in Mournhold and prepare them to march out and sail for Vvardenfell. Could it be that the skies signalled something? Perhaps the weather was meant to warn them that something will happen?

Foolish premonitions…

“What if he does not need a throne?” Helseth asked out loud, his crimson gaze fixed at the flowered courtyard of his palace. “The seat may be mine, but that does mean the minds of the people are.”

“You know they are,” Barenziah reassured him for what felt like a hundredth time this day.

Her son shook his head, but did not say a word for another long moment of uneasy silence. Finally, turning back to the queen, he sighed. “I cannot do anything,” he stated.

“No, you cannot,” she agreed.

“The people listen to him,” Helseth went on, as if he has not heard her speak. “But I will secure my rule and the trust of my people, one way or another. My troops will soon march out and join him on the island.” Turning to stare out the window again, he allowed his lips to curl up into a smirk. “The sacred Hortator will once again serve my will whether he likes it or not.”


	14. Regret

It was still a bit dark when the troops gathered. The sun rose so lazily it seemed doubtful if the day comes at all, as if it knew that when it finally does, it will bring only blood. As there was much of it to be spilled, and the ashen grounds and the heart of the mountain would soon be painted red. Yet, for now, there was only union. Brotherhood.

The view alone was worth waiting. Before the stone cantons of the ancient city of Vivec stood an army. Soldiers were divided, yet side by side, hand in hand. Each shield bore a crest and each tunic the colour of a Great House. The old House Dres with its traditional Dunmeri armour stood proud right next to the Telvanni, the wizards in their lavish, magicka-soaked robes. The Indoril took their place next to the Redoran, their brethren both in faith and in blood. And the Hlaalu, the most different among these people, and yet with them, equal. The rising sun shone from beyond the city walls over the variously armoured and armed soldiers in a cascade of colours and hues. They stood like a shining rainbow that was soon to be soaked with blood.

Grey of the Dres. Golden Indoril. Red armoured guard of king Hlaalu Helseth. Altogether, as one, as equal.

Anthir moved through the rows of his warriors and wizards, gazing to his sides out of the corners of his eyes. Those that did not wear their helmets bore stone expressions; their faces were blank masks betraying absolutely no emotion. He noted a few very familiar faces – Master Aryon, his ever vigilant ally from House Telvanni, stood among his fellow Councillors. It seemed they all decided to fight in person, and it pleased Anthir in some strange way. Eryn Almari was there too, of course, as the only commander of the Indoril, and he bowed deeply as soon as he saw his Hortator pass him. There was the god-king, Vivec, in his light armour, sword and shield in hand. And he was smiling. Anthir immediately averted his gaze when he met the two-coloured face. He turned it elsewhere and beheld something he would have never expected to.

To the Nord’s utter shock, he saw also Crassius Curio. It was hard to describe this man. In the surprisingly heavy armour one could associate only with the Imperial Legion, but with his helmet not yet on, Curio looked nothing like himself. You could actually see a warrior in him, in a man that has never seemed to be at all serious. He nodded as he noticed Anthir’s questioning gaze and they both understood each other perfectly.

No turning back.

Anthir stopped before his army, the heavy armour he wore battered and not gleaming at all, contrasting with the outfits of his soldiers. He surveyed them all once more, slowly, and finally spoke.

“This is it,” he said and to him it sounded like an extremely lousy beginning of a speech. “This is the day,” he went on and all men and mer before him seemed to hold breaths. There was nothing, not a sound. “Soon we will march out for Red Mountain, a place that should have never become a threat again. But it has, and it is our sworn duty to eliminate any threat. The daedra await us there, and I will not lie to you. None of us knows what to expect. Many of us will not return. Perhaps even none of us.”

There he paused to survey them again. A few faces dropped their stone masks and looked at him with eyes that seemed to await some sort of reassurance, comfort maybe. But to their disappointment, Anthir said: “We will not back up. You are here because you chose to serve your people with your strength and skills, and this is what you shall do at Red Mountain. If we are to die for Morrowind, so be it. We shall die with honour. No turning back.”

They waited, but on those few faces he could see in this armed crowd he beheld only understanding. They knew very well how much they risk, and they were ready to do it. This is the path they chose. And did he?

No, he did not, Anthir sighed inwardly, but no turning back. He was far too deep in all this, and they believed in him far too much. Even his once-greatest enemy Vivec slowly became an appreciated ally. Will he, a simple child of the Night Mother, live up to deserve the titles they bestowed upon him? Can he serve both Mephala and her opposite, Azura, the one he calls his mother?

Will he be able to accept himself as what he was born?

Perhaps he will.

He then took a deep breath and, raising his voice, called out: “I am Nerevar!”

There were cheers.

 

They marched northward through the harsh, unfriendly lands of Vvardenfell. An army of united Dunmer crossed forests, so eerie to Westerners and so mysterious to most, to reach the slightly swampier borders of the West Gash. The passing of these troops was now on the lips of each and every one in Morrowind, even on the distant mainland that had nothing to do with this sudden, not entirely clear war campaign. But what is done, is done.

On their way they saw everything the island had to offer – there were plants and trees growing wild and huge, there were beautiful flowers emanating fragrances that contrasted with the passing army unbelievably much. There were rarer herbs and calm rivers that shimmered quietly, oblivious to what was to come. Any animals and beasts they may have passed on their way fled into hiding, scared away by sheer noise made by footsteps of dozens of armoured feet. Here and there a few pairs of eyes watched them carefully from the shadows, but whatever was lurking there did not dare move. These two or three times they marched next to a settlement, they saw the people watch them with weary, alert eyes. One woman even pushed her curious son back into their hut, as if afraid something dark will follow the marching army.

Perhaps it did.

It was a force no one has seen in these lands since the calamity of the First Era, a force of sworn enemies united and of hatred turned to alliance. And before them, leading the army, was a man in an armour black as ebony and riding a heavily armoured black horse.

There were the saviours. Or, at least, the people wanted to think so.

 

They camped for the night yet again. It was a proper camp, too. They had tents which they carried along during the day and now set up to sleep in. You could see these mer were trained soldiers; trained in setting up camps, anyway. The tents themselves were nothing more than sticks and thick linen, but they did their job. Vvardenfell had no more ashstorms – all one needed was something to shelter them from night's cold, at least partially.

Seven years ago no one would have dared to stop here for the night. They have left the green woods and swampy gash far behind. Here, the grey and barren land already sloped up and unbeaten tracks winded around like snakes, signalling how dangerously close Red Mountain was. But now, with Dagoth Ur gone, this place seemed so much safer. There surely were some ash vampires still wandering the hills, and almost certainly some poor folk twisted into madness by corprus.

But for some reason, people no longer seemed afraid. This could have been because of the death of the one they called the Sharmat, the Blighter. It could have been because Nerevar was with them once more. Whatever the real reason, they were there, and they would not back up.

The sky was not as clear as they would want it to be. The many glittering stars and the one visible moon were occasionally disappearing, hidden behind clouds that wandered across the night sky and heralded rain. But it did not rain yet; the ashen ground was as dry as the distant deserts, and the air felt like dust in the lungs. Most mer were already asleep in their secure little tents among the dancing camp fires, which Anthir found oddly soothing, save for those that were to stand guard during the night in case something _did_ lurk in the darkness.

Anthir did not sleep yet. He stood at the edge of the camp, still clad in full armour, and gazed up at the sky, watching the stars hide and show and hide again. Sighing to himself, he pondered.

His heart hurt like never before. Some claimed that time heals all wounds, even those that could not be seen, but Anthir would only laugh in their faces, and it would be laughter through tears. The pain only increased as time passed, and he felt worse inside. It felt as if Martin had died only yesterday, slipped away into the circular altar before the Nord could stop him, before he could confess... Then there was only darkness, and the never ceasing pain. The words never got through, and that was the only thing he ever regretted.

How he missed Martin... No words could express it, but he knew the stars understood him.

He was, after all, supposed to be one of them.

Then there was this odd feeling he could not identify and which he grew to call a hunger. Because he felt as if he was hungry. Ever since he gazed into Savilla's Stone it seemed like something was missing, almost as if something other than his love was torn out of him and taken far away. And, what should have frightened him, for a reason he did not even try to ponder he knew that gaining what is left of the heart of Lorkhan will satiate this hunger, fill this emptiness inside him.

And, at this moment, he completely forgot what he wished to use the heart for.

There was a gentle cough behind him. Blinking, his thoughts dissipating like morning mist, Anthir looked back over his shoulder.

There was Crassius Curio. He apparently decided to relieve himself from his heavy cuirass and remained only in a chain mail shirt, but left his plated greaves on. His hair, always smooth and neat, was now a mess. They stuck together on dirt and sweat and hung around his face in thick strands. But the Councillor did not seem to mind; he was smiling gently.

“Yes?” was the first and only thing to say that came to Anthir's mind.

“It is a beautiful night,” Curio said, taking a couple of steps forward and standing next to the Nord.

Anthir nodded slightly. It was not, he thought, but he was not in the mood for an arguement. Not even a discussion. And furthermore, he felt like he does not want to know why this Imperial came.

The answer to that mute question came against him. “You seem troubled, my Lord...” Curio said quietly.

_And it is not like it is any of your concern_ , thought Anthir. Aloud, he said: “You know how it feels, Councillor. Sometimes you just are not sure of things.”

“This is true, Lord Hortator...” Curio replied slowly enough to make the whole sentence sound insincere. “There are things in life we can never be sure of. Like, decisions we make. Sometimes even after you made a decision and saw the outcome you do not know if what you did was right...”

Anthir shuddered, making the other man narrow his eyes. He did not shudder because of the cool night winds – a Nord? There was more, something subtle, hidden only in a single gleam in the eye or a beat of the heart that was off the rhythm. And Crassius Curio saw it.

“My Lord, what is the matter...?” he asked carefully. Anthir looked at him sideways and saw only concern on that smooth, handsome face. This Imperial was a dandy, but at least he was an honest and caring dandy.

“We're headed for war, Crassius,” the Nord said and the other did not even seem to notice he was being addressed by his name. Normally this would have made him extremely happy, perhaps even a bit too much, but right now he just stood still with that same, concerned expression, waiting for his superior to continue speaking.

“War,” Anthir repeated. “I'm sending you, all of you, to die at that accursed mountain. And what for?”

The reply came before the words could die. “To defend the kingdom, of course,” Curio said.

_And you truly believe that_ , the Nord thought.

“From a bunch of daedra that do not even poke their noses out of the volcano,” he said dryly.

This time the Councillor hesitated, but only for a brief moment. “They are the remnants of an invasion, my Lord Hortator, and they came here for a reason. They will strike, so we must strike first.”

_And you believe this as well._

“This is true,” Anthir nodded, trying to reassure himself more than the man beside him. “But I fear we will pay a price higher than the prize is worth...”

He felt a sudden jolt of sharp, stabbing pain. He expected it, really, but he also expected it to stab at the heart. But instead it came from somewhere around the stomach.

There was the odd hunger again, clouding his mind. For a moment Anthir could see nothing but the purple mist before his eyes and feel nothing aside of an invisible hand clutching his stomach. The voice rang in his mind, called him to come, summoned, _seduced_ him. He felt sick, and only when he closed his eyes and swayed slightly did he realize that Crassius Curio is talking to him.

“My Lord?” the Imperial said as he grabbed Anthir's arms to keep him from falling. “My Lord, what is wrong?”

“I'm fine,” the Nord mumbled, struggling out of Curio's grip. The last thing he wanted was to have to explain this.

The heart of Lorkhan was apparently trying to remind him about itself. Anthir gripped the satchel he grew to consider almost sacred, the one that contained the only memento he had after his beloved, and his only hope for bringing him back.

The invisible hand squeezed his stomach again. He had to reach the heart...

All this happened in but a fraction of a second before Curio withdrew his hands from his superior and looked down with an expression that bore both pain and apology.

“I am sorry, Lord Hortator...” he muttered. “I did not mean to-”

“No,” Anthir cut in. “I am sorry, my friend. I got so angry with myself I vented it on you. Forgive me.”

“It... is alright,” the Imperial said with a muffled sigh. “If I may... why are you angry with yourself?”

The Nord paused with his eyes raised to the stars. For a moment he considered if he should answer this question... after all, there would be a lot of explaining. But if he remained silent, would it not make things only worse than they already are?

He fought back the urge to vomit as he felt another squeeze at the stomach and said:

“A lot has happened when I was away, Crassius.” He paused. It only just occurred to him he uses the Councillor's first name and had absolutely no idea why. He decided to associate it with the trust this Imperial has earned himself, but for some reason that felt like only a part of the true explanation.

“Some things we cannot change,” he went on, his voice deep and somewhat distant. “And many of them we regret.”

Curio could not help but nod. “Everyone makes mistakes, my Lord,” he replied softly, his voice soothing. “And even though we cannot change so many things we wish we could, the past is the past.”

Anthir narrowed his eyes. Keeping them fixed at the stars that just hid behind a wandering cloud and waiting for them to reappear, he asked: “So you are saying we should forget what was?”

“Perhaps not forget,” Crassius shook his head. “But treat it like the thing it is – the past. Leave it behind.”

The other sighed. “You know it is not always that simple.”

“Yes, my Lord, I know.”

Finally, Anthir looked at him. His eyes were shining with what the Imperial could identify only as tears. “And what would you like to change?” he asked softly, and his voice was surprisingly firm.

Curio smiled. “Many things, Lord Hortator. I have made more mistakes than I can count, but all of this is the past and I can do nothing about it.”

“And supposing that you _could_?”

The Councillor narrowed his eyes at this question. “My Lord...” he started slowly, unsure how to word this. Something was very, very wrong here. “I realize something is bothering you, and if there is anything I can do-”

“There is not,” Anthir shook his head and averted his gaze to the stars once more. One star seemed to gleam brighter than the others when he looked at it. “I have never regretted anything, Crassius. Not until I failed to confess my feelings before it was too late.”

There was silence, interrupted only by the cracking fires from behind them and footsteps of soldiers patrolling the camp. The Imperial shivered slightly as the wind blew stronger, chilling him to the bone, but the Nord next to him did not notice this at all.

“My Lord...” Curio said, straining to keep his voice from trembling. He wanted to say more, but no appropriate words came. Finally, after the silence stretched and stretched, he added: “I am so sorry...”

“For no reason,” Anthir said dryly and the other could feel his own shoulders sag at this. The words were sharp and cut like a knife. “I do not know why I bother you. This is none of your concern.”

“I...” Crassius began, but bit his tongue. There were no words that would change things right now. He did not know what to say, how to try and comfort his superior, so he just hung his head in a mute apology.

The Nord sighed through his nose. “Where is Vivec?” he asked.

Relieved at the change of topic, the Councillor smiled inwardly. But when he spoke, his voice was even and devoted of all emotion. “Asleep,” he said shortly. When no reply came from Anthir, he quietly withdrew into the camp and headed for his own tent, leaving the other staring at the dark, clouded sky in mute accusation and confusion.

 

Vivec was not asleep.

He just laid in his bedroll, his light armour resting next to him on the ground, and turned from one side to the other uneasily. Things were more than odd and he realized it too well. Something was wrong. Terribly, horribly wrong.

Something familiar hung in the air. It was so familiar Vivec could swear that if he extended a hand, he would touch history. They were so close to Red Mountain there was no possibility that he was mistaken. Staring at the linen of his tent, he felt his heart pulse somewhere near his throat. He felt this before, so long ago, and hoped never to feel it again.

He has been to Red Mountain more times than he can count. Something happened there which was the greatest mistake in his aeon-long life, and he will not let this happen again.

As it was the only thing he has ever regretted.


	15. The Beginning Place

With the Ghostfence inactive and the blight banished, Red Mountain looked nothing like itself. The ashen greyness of its land and rocks still reminded of the horrors that took place here, and some could swear they heard them howling as the wind blew, but things were so much different now that the sun could illuminate the volcano. Among this barren land where one met only death there actually was light. Some of the more religious soldiers, mostly Redoran and Indoril, whispered among themselves what a metaphor this mountain became. To them it seemed like the Star Wound reflected what was happening to the Dunmer – their victory over the Sharmat and the light of hope that came during the Oblivion Crisis.

The ascent to the mouth of the volcano proved to be easier than any of them expected. With no ash in the air to slow them down and no storms to push them back, they made their way up to the crater surprisingly smoothly. True, the journey still was tiring, but nonetheless much easier than Anthir remembered it. He has climbed this mountain before... and hoped never to return here.

But he had to. Sithis his witness, he had to.

He was now standing on a steep cliff overlooking the mouth of Red Mountain, the oddly gentle breeze caressing his tired face and dancing in his hair, dirty and greasy after days of marching. Behind him, the troops settled down to rest before the final journey downward into the volcano. Clashes of iron of their armour and arms, made as they sat down on the barren ground, muffled everything else. Anthir stared down into the pools of lava below, not noticing the uneasiness of his faithful horse and the footsteps of someone approaching him.

With the unique grace one could see only in him, Vivec stepped forward with a grim smile on his face.

“Here is were it all began,” he said smoothly. The Nord did not turn to him.

“All what?” he asked dryly. So many things happened here that the god could mean exactly anything. For a moment he wanted to ask if it were his own crimes this mer had in mind, but bit his tongue in time.

The elf eyed the profile of his thin face before replying. “All that has brought us here, in the end,” he said, his voice soft. The grimace on his face also softened into a gentle smile, but the Hortator did not see it. He dared not look. “The events from so long ago, battles long forgotten...” Vivec sighed.

“Broken oaths and spilled blood,” Anthir cut in, his own voice emotionless, as if wanting to remind Vivec about that one certain thing he could not forget, let alone forgive.

“Some things begin in glory, other in blood,” the mer said truthfully. “And sometimes ends justify the means.” He could see the Nord's lips thin into a straight, strained line. Unimpressed, he added: “I am not proud of it, Moon-and-Star. But what is done, is done.”

The man said nothing to this, only stared down at the bubbling pools of molten fire that guarded the entrance into the fortress of Dagoth Ur, the long dead Sharmat. Nearly everyone who blamed Vivec for the death of the first Hortator forgot what he has later done for all of Morrowind. All those wars through which he led his people to victory, the glory he brought them over the millennia. Perhaps the ends did justify his means... Anthir shook his head, trying to dismiss the thoughts. Without Vivec, Morrowind would have never reached its glorious state. And still he could not stop hating the mer.

The god sighed softly. His eyes were fixed upon the crater as well, but not at the lava as such, but the remains of Dwemer constructions right next to it. There were broken pipes spread around the fiery lake, each carved with worn and barely readable runes, there were devices few could name and no one dared touch. Anthir reluctantly followed the elf's gaze to the odd, round gate contained within half an orb and suddenly felt the already familiar squeeze at the stomach.

“I... no, we have returned to the beginning place,” Vivec said. “I and you, Nerevar Moon-and-Star. The cycle turns and here, the beginning will meet the end.”

The Nord raised his eyes and stared at the god beside him. His face was stone, so serious it was difficult to divine whether he actually meant it or was it just another game of his. From this angle, Anthir could see only his Chimeri side, the one that gleamed gold in the blindingly bright sunlight. At this moment it resembled that of a grim, stone god that loves his people yet punishes them for every wrongdoing with little mercy. Another face of the one they called Vivec, Vehk and Vehk, and again as true as it could get. Again this was him – different angle yet the same elf.

“What are you talking about?” Anthir asked slowly, uncertain if he wants to know.

“The cycle turns,” Vivec repeated. “The Wheel has completed its turn. We are back where it all began. History repeats itself and, just as before, something will end and something will begin.”

“I am not so sure if I wish to learn which is which,” the Nord said bitterly and turned to his troops. “Alright!” he called. All faces turned to him and all voices died as the soldiers listened.

“I want the Redoran, Indoril and half of Telvanni to stay up here and guard the paths leading to the crater!” Anthir ordered, keeping his voice high. “Hlaalu and Dres, you will descend into the crater with me and guard the entrance down there.” He took a couple of steps forward, eyeing the mer gathered before him as they started to stand up and refasten their armours or adjust their robes. The black steed neighed uneasily, and Anthir knew she realized something is amiss. That is what you get when you ride a half-demon being.

“The other half of Telvanni, along with a few Indoril and Hlaalu, will follow me inside. No, Councillor Curio, you will stay out here.”

“I will go in,” a voice called and when the Nord turned, he saw the familiar, handsome face of young Master Aryon of the Telvanni. He only nodded in reply.

“As will I,” sounded another voice from behind the Hortator. This time it was the god who spoke, his face calm and lips twisted up in a gentle smile.

There was only one thing Anthir could say to this. “Very well,” he replied evenly. He knew he will require Vivec's aid, one way or another, to revive his beloved Martin. With a wave of a hand, he ordered his troops to move out. Many of the assembled soldiers followed him without a word, yet with very audible and clearly exasperated grunts.

“And so it begins,” Vivec said, but no one heard him.

 

There was only a handful of them inside. Anthir and Vivec and Aryon at the front, followed by only several best mer picked from Houses Telvanni, Indoril and Hlaalu. They treaded carefully, yet their armed feet made steps that sounded heavy and echoed against the walls of now empty, deserted corridors, muffled only by the occasional puff of hot steam that went loose out of a vent or broken pipe.

And there were a lot of vents and pipes around them. The corridors which they now crossed, weapons in hand, were made of thick layers of copper and steel. The brown hues and metallic gleam all around them sent their hearts racing in uneasiness, only strengthened by the reddish light of the fiery pools that bubbled all around and even beneath them. And the writings... the writings were everywhere. Dwemer runes adorned each and every piece of peculiar machinery in the ruins, carved in the very surface. None of the invaders could read them, but that was not what caught their attention.

In the few places where they could see bare rock there were other writings. Made with purely white chalk, or sometimes blood, the Dunmer – or sometimes also Daedric – words shone in the fiery light. The Sleeper has awaken; the Sixth House rises; do not proceed; join Him; each of these was accompanied by a neatly drawn crest of House Dagoth.

And there was absolutely no wind inside.

“Something is amiss,” said an Indoril soldier slowly, his grip on the hilt of his sword tightening. “I can hear howls.”

“There is no one here,” Aryon replied uncertainly, looking back at the other elf.

Anthir shook his head, walking even slower than he already was, making the mer behind him nearly bump into one another before they, too, decreased pace. “Do not forget,” he said, not turning to the Telvanni Master “that we are here to hunt daedra. We cannot be certain what awaits. The howls might be the daedra...”

“But there are no howls,” interrupted a Hlaalu warrior. “I heard none.”

The Indoril hissed suddenly. “I don't like this,” he said slowly. “Death is in the air.”

“We cannot stop here,” the Nord said firmly, sighing through his nose. “We are in too deep to turn back. You have sworn yourselves to me, and you will _not_ back up on me now.” He nodded his head towards yet another corridor that led downward and smelled of ash and molten copper. It seemed darker than the path they treaded on so far, as if the lava that lit their way was no longer present below them.

Anthir turned to a soldier that was standing nearest. “Light the torches,” he ordered. “We are leaving the kingdom of the tinkering Dwemer.”

Aryon narrowed his eyes nervously. “Then... where are we going?”

“To the land of a god of steel and stone.”

 

For one thing, it indeed was dark. Five of the armed mer carried torches, but their fires cast too little light to show everything the intruders wanted to see. Those that dared extend their hands felt only hot, hard stone through their gloves. The surface was uneven, clearly not carved by any hands, human or otherwise. If they thought about it, they would have realized this corridor is natural, a hole in the surface of the earth drilled through by nature alone.

But none of them thought about this. Soon the torches revealed bloodstains on the walls, only a couple in one single place, and a short trail on the stone floor beneath them. The trail cut off suddenly.

And then, there was a hiss.

They all stopped in their tracks, weapons raised. Those that had both hands free held up their shields as well, intended on protecting both themselves and their comrades from whatever danger may come.

But it was not as simple as it at first seemed. The corridor here widened into a cave with only a single corridor leading out the other way. The place was too huge to be lit by torches as such, and so the only things the invaders could see where themselves.

Aryon whispered: “We may light the place with magicka, Lord Hortator.”

“Do not even think about it,” the Nord replied in a sharp whisper. “It will attract attention to us.” He then turned to the soldiers, eyes narrowed, and after a moment added: “Two of you, stay here with torches. The rest follow me, and drop everything that gives light.”

The soldiers looked at each other bewildered. But then there came the hiss again... Two of the elves stepped backwards, their faces hid by masks but surely not as straight as they ought to be; the rest dropped their torches where they stood and nodded at Anthir.

He quickly scanned them. Those that were armed and lightless at his command seemed to be calm and ready. Master Aryon stood proudest of them all, although clad only in light robes and carrying nothing more than a small silver dagger. Next to him was Vivec, his two-coloured face as blank as ever. Once he saw the Nord's gaze upon himself, he nodded in silent agreement and even encouragement.

“This may be difficult,” the Nord whispered, barely audible. “But you will just have to trust me. Hide in the shadows and wait for my sign.”

“What will the sign be?” asked a soldier.

He got a shrug in reply. “I don't know.”

And with this, Anthir disappeared in the darkness.

He stopped a few steps behind the edge of the shadow. For a moment he saw absolutely nothing, so no more than the soldiers that were waiting behind with their breaths stuck in their throats. What made it somewhat better – but only slightly – was that among the things he could not see was the face of Vivec. He lost himself in his game; no longer did he know if what he feels is hatred or pity or love or whatever else it could be. One thing that he knew was that he does not want to face the god again, but it was not the place nor the time to ponder this. He narrowed his eyes, trying to focus on anything that would let him clear his thoughts, but it took a while to see anything. When his eyes finally got used to the dark, he could make out silhouettes, blurred shapes, shadows deeper than the rest. He took a step forward.

The silence seemed to deepen. Treading ever so slowly, he moved his lips in a silent, unspoken prayer. This was madness and he knew it, but the knowledge came too late. What was it Martin said? The wisdom that one has been a fool is not without value…

The memory stung, but he clenched his teeth, reassuring himself the pain will be over soon. Bent over in a stealthy tread, he reached down into his boot and pulled out a small dagger. Its blade was enchanted, but far from powerful – Anthir kept this weapon more for its discretion and sentimental value, of which it had much, than its actual magical power. The steel would have gleamed if there was any light for it to reflect; but fortunately the torches were too far by now.

The Nord could only hope he attacks before the daedra do.

A silhouette to his right stirred. He froze, waiting. The shape was humanoid, and apparently very careful. It turned from side to side, surveying, observing the shades. Anthir took a step to one side, one to the other, and kept walking like this in hope of approaching unnoticed, or at least confusing the daedroth.

There was a clash somewhere in the middle of the cave.

An orb of light shot up and scattered at the stone ceiling, illuminating the area with almost blinding, magical light. It revealed several daedra scattered across the cavern, as confused and taken aback as the Dunmeri soldiers clutched up at its entrance. And among them, somewhere near one wall, was the figure of Anthir and an armour-clad Dremora at his feet. 

The Dunmer warriors did not wait; with battle cries on their lips, they rushed.

From there on it was all a blur. Steel clashed against daedric steel, swords met swords and claws, spells shot across the entire cavern. The light above the closed battlefield started to wane, bathing the entire scene in shadow once more. But the darkness was not complete; streams of magicka sent colourful lights all around the Telvanni wizards as they muttered their incantations, casting eerie, distorted shadows onto the floor and stone walls. Figures ran – sometimes jumped or were thrown – in different directions, circles, curves and lines that could have been considered straight. Voices echoed against the walls; they distorted and mixed into a cacophony. Words of Dunmeri and Cyrodilic languages were intercepted by something that could have been daedric, escaping from mouths of men, mer and monsters alike. All this was accompanied by clash of steel, heavy steps on stone and shouts of pain.

And there was blood. Lots of blood. Streams of crimson and what seemed to be navy blue ran beneath the feet of the fighting parties, flowing like a painful river that grew and grew, threatening to rise above its shores. It seemed it would happen just then; soon the stream became a mixed pool, stirring and circling each time someone set foot in it. The walls were not free from the colour of death, either. Wounded warriors and wizards were thrown against the stone next to hindered daedra, leaving trails of sanguine red, dark blue and almost black blood behind them as they slid to the floor. Some never got up.

Anthir did not notice everything. He saw blades and claws swung at him, and did not back up this time. Stuffing his dagger behind his belt, he sheathed his sword in one swift motion. Its curved blade was split in two – the inner one was simple steel that gleamed in the eerie coloured lights of spells around him. The outer, longer blade was living fire that illuminated the Nord’s path on its own. With this sacred sword, with this Trueflame, Anthir blocked the blows aimed at him and sent his daedric attackers flying to the sides. Then, he rushed. There was no reason to stay in one spot – it would mean certain death, one way or another. At least that was what his clouded, berserking mind told him that very moment. He ran forward.

Nothing mattered. The cloud on his mind instantly covered also his eyes, and its colour was purple. He knew there were enemies attempting to stop his aimless run, and he swung his blade at his sides, left – right – left – right… Someone screamed. It could have been a foe, but it could have been a friend. He did not know.

He hissed as he felt a firm hand grip his wrist. The mist evaporated as quickly as it came. Anthir stared down at his sword-wielding arm to see an armoured hand. He followed it up and saw Vivec.

“This way,” the god whispered and pulled the Nord with him.

Not really objecting, the Hortator followed, his grip on the Trueflame tightening on its own. “What are you doing?” he asked in a sibilant whisper.

Vivec looked at him briefly, his twin face serious and, for once, did not bear a smile. “Taking you to what you came for.”

Anthir looked behind his shoulder to see the raging battle for the last time.

 

Echoes of the battle died around them as Vivec pulled him through a narrow, dark corridor. The only source of light they had was the fiery blade of Anthir’s Trueflame, but the radius was so small they could not really see where they were going. The god knew far better than that, though; his mind and instincts led him to the core far better than any eyes could. He remembered this route – followed it so many times before he now knew it by heart.

The Nord did not dare ask. He felt light-headed and his legs seemed to be running after Vivec on their own, without his mind really participating. His thoughts were occupied with something entirely different – with Martin, the vision he had through the Stone, his years in service of the Tribunal Temple, and even the face of Uriel Septim a few moments before his death. 

Then there was some eerie light before them.

At the end of the corridor there was a small, almost perfectly round chamber, definitely not made by hands of nature alone. Anthir and Vivec came out into a faint glow of lava pooled in what could have once been a corner. Turning their eyes away from a carefully carved piece of wood dubbed an ‘ash statue’ by the Ashlanders – for what reason they could not really tell – they ran towards a round, no, spherical door left here by the ancient Dwemer. Vivec let go of his companion’s hand; apparently he trusted that he will not back up on him now that they were so deep in and so close to the goal.

Anthir’s wrist felt slightly numb under the surprisingly strong grip, but he paid no attention to it. He knew the way from here. With his free hand he turned a funny looking piece of metal – a curved pole only a few inches long – right by the spherical door and watched its two halves move inside.

His heart skipped a beat the moment he remembered first setting foot in this place. The lava, the ash statue, the door were just as they are now – but there was one more thing, one tiny detail he could never forget. Inside the steel sphere, where Vivec now stood and pulled the Nord, once laid a ring. A small band with just one purple jewel. Untouched, unscarred, untainted. Pure and beautiful.

Anthir swallowed audibly. Dagoth Ur – no, Voryn Dagoth once occupied this place. He lived – dwelled – in here ever since Nerevar, the first Hortator, told him to guard something down here. Everyone kept repeating the thing were in fact the tools of Kagrenac himself, the gauntlet, the warhammer and the dagger. This version seemed plausible, and fit the story in which Voryn Dagoth lost his mind due to the tools’ corruption.

And yet, before finding the golem, Anthir found a ring.

Could the Sharmat be guarding a _ring_?

Something told him he will never find the answer, even though said band was safe in his home, far back in Cheydinhal. With a loud puff of hot steam, the steel spherical door moved back to place and let the two of them pass into the very heart of Red Mountain.

The Nord felt his heart beat loud and irregular. It has been years since he last set foot in this place. One glance at Vivec’s two-coloured face told him the mer feels exactly the same. They were both unnerved and somewhat mesmerized at the same time.

The chamber was humongous, hot and bright. The pool of liquid fire beneath them cast sinister shadows onto the walls and the carved stone platform that circled around the entire place, from the very bottom to the very top of the dormant volcano. But, unlike the chamber they both remembered, this one was empty… hollow. They half expected to see the stone and steel golem tower above them like the grim, unliving god it was. But Akulakhan did not rise again; its crumbled remains covered most of the lava pool below, raising its initial level a good several feet.

However great it might have been, Akulakhan was just a statue, a construct made by mortals. And yet the sight was almost gruesome. Its face was pretty much intact and laid above the surface, staring accusingly at the world with its hollow eyes; one of them had a deep crack running across it. The empty ribcage laid right next to it. Of what it was made, neither Anthir nor Vivec knew, but it certainly looked like real, gargantuan bones. One arm of the golem seemed to have been completely sunken, but the other was sticking straight out of the pool.

Vivec turned to his companion with his face showing only concern. The expression deepened and mixed with fear as he saw the Nord’s spellbound gaze, chest heaving heavily as he breathed deeply in excitement, and the desire written all over his face. 

On the open stone palm laid what they came for.

The Heart of Lorkhan was there.

It truly was there!


	16. No Sacrifice, No Victory

“Nerevar, don't!”

The call echoed against the stone walls in tones so low the entire cave seemed to tremble, sending dust and debris falling down to the ground and lava. But it fell on deaf ears; Anthir was already speeding down along the circular path and paid no attention to anything. The world was a blur, and the only thing that mattered was the heart and the purple mist that surrounded it.

Hissing to himself, Vivec rushed after him, keeping to the wall as much as he dared. The Nord had a significant headstart, he noticed, and ran faster than anyone would have suspected. Before the god reached him, Anthir was standing at the edge of the stone path dangerously close to the pool of lava and staring down at it.

“Nerevar, don't...” the mer repeated, his chest heaving heavily from both the chase and adrenaline. “You cannot...”

“Do not try to stop me, Vivec,” the man said flatly, his tone deep and determined. “Why would you? You were the one who told me what I need. You helped me get here.”

The god followed his gaze to what his eyes were fixed at. It was the humongous open palm, carved of sheer stone and steel, sticking out of the molten lava as if trying to reach for someone or something that would pull it out. And on it, the accursed thing remained...

Anthir moved one foot back a couple of inches and bent his knees, not once turning to look at the other. “I will not back up now that I'm so close.” And with this, he leapt.

Vivec ran to him with a hand outstretched; he half-expected this to happen, but now that it did he let this eerie shock take the better of him. He was too late; he froze at the edge of the path and watched the armoured Nord fly over the fiery pool in a smooth arch. Things seemed to go slower than they ought to, as if someone stretched time to allow the mer to take in all the details. But he was focused on the horrible face that flew away and he was unable to stop it; a face horrible in the light of the molten fire below, horrible because of the determination it showed and because of the odd spark in those brown eyes that, even while illuminated from outside, still overcame all other gleams and showed itself to Vivec's terrified, almost aching heart.

The spark of insanity, of madness, of a soul controlled by something it could not comprehend...

If a god had anyone to pray to, this one would.

Anthir's foot touched the surface of Akulakhan's open palm and immediately slipped. The stone from which it was carved seemed smoothed by steam and heat of the lava, yet – for some unknown reason – not destroyed by the burning heat. The Nord instantly grabbed one of the huge fingers and clung to it for dear life.

“Nerevar!”

“I'm fine,” he hissed as he pulled up slowly, the smoothness working against his already heat-weakened body. Once his feet found some uncertain ground, he dared not straighten up; one false move and it all ends in fire. He would not allow it. Not when he was this close. This close...

He reached out for his prize. It literally gleamed with crimson red, faintly and almost invisibly on the background of lava. Anthir's tired and watery eyes barely registered the red spot on the golem's dark hand, most likely blood that flowed from the heart when it was stabbed and dried up over the years. But for some reason it did not evaporate; it stayed as some sort of gruesome mark, a sign of what befalls those that tamper with forces beyond their comprehension.

The man did not think of it. For him there was only the redness and a purple mist that obscured everything else, making him focus only on his goal, on the one thing he craved...

His hand gripped it tightly. He expected to find a string, one single thread of life, and what he got exceeded his boldest wishes. He found a huge chunk of the heart, an almost spherical shape that beat rhythmically against his fist. Anthir took a deep breath, holding the prize to his chest with his eyes shut tight. The mist faded slowly, giving way to images of his wildest, most improbable dream coming true.

Martin.

The Nord pulled himself up to his knees, a part of him cheering at the power that was now in his hand, beating in the rhythm which all life followed. He turned to the circular path that was just a jump away from him and beheld the terrified, two-coloured face he came to hate more than respect. Clinging to one smooth finger for dear life, he positioned himself face to the path and shakily straightened up. His feet moved over the stones to find some relatively even surface on which to rely. One false move...

He leapt.

For some reason his flight over the fiery pool seemed much shorter than when he went the other way. He reached the stone pathway, but the lack of proper leverage at the beginning made him loose balance. Vivec instantly grabbed one of his armoured arms and pulled him towards the wall before he could slip to his death. For a long moment they both stood there, panting, each for his own reason and each equally anxious.

Instead of a thank you, the mer earned himself a twin-bladed fiery sword aimed right at his throat.

“Nerevar...?” he managed.

“Time to keep your word,” Anthir said, a spark gleaming in his eye for just a fraction of a second. But it did not go unnoticed. Vivec took a step backwards and the Nord followed.

This was _bad_.

“Nerevar,” the god breathed “don't do this. Forget all this... it's not worth the price...”

The man snorted. “What price? I've paid a price high enough! Your body belongs to me now,” he grinned nastily, leaning forward a bit so that his face was illuminated not only by the lava, but also by the eerie magical fire of his Trueflame sword. “Give it to me, Vivec.”

Backing up even further, and gulping inwardly, the elf replied with his throat dry as sand: “Forgive me, Lord Hortator. I will not.”

“You dare break your given word?!” Anthir shouted and swung the blade at the mer. The other jumped backwards, sending some debris falling down to its ultimate end. “You dare defy me?!”

“Nerevar, put yourself to-”

A strong hand pushed him towards the cavern's inner wall by the throat. Vivec let out a grunt and tried to avert his gaze, but could not stop staring into those crazed eyes. It all was clear now.

He would not let the same mistake be made again. Gathering what was left of his waning powers, Vivec grabbed the arm and pushed it away, freeing himself from the iron grip. He then forced the tall man onto the ground, keeping as close to the wall as was possible. All this happened in what seemed just a second; so ridiculously fast that Anthir did not see a thing, not even hear the whiz of air being cut by such swift moves. Before he knew it, he was down on his back and the mer held his sword arm with one hand.

With the other, he tore the beating heart from his grip.

“Stop,” Anthir hissed. “You have no right! Give it back!”

Vivec shook his head, the feeling of a torn heart beating in his palm sickening him. “You were never meant to taste this power,” he said dryly, but his eyes softened, as if about to fill with tears. “No mortal ever was.”

“Let go of me!”

“I should have never let you come here,” the god continued, pressing his knees against the Nord's struggling legs and earning a pained gasp in reply. “I should have never, ever tell you what I have said. But what is done, is done.” Sending one short but sheerly hateful gaze at the unnervingly living thing in his hand, he shook his head. “Let go of that blade, Nerevar... you shall not need it now.”

Anthir let out a growl, his lips curling down in a furious sneer. Nevertheless, the grip on the hilt of his sword loosened, causing a quiet clash to disturb the sudden silence as the Trueflame dropped to the stone ground. With a calm yet firm look fixed upon the man, Vivec slowly stood up. The other followed shortly, his legs slightly numb from the pressure from which he was only just relieved. Although the inner voice demanded it, and he never wanted anything more than to reach down for the sword and strike the mer down where he stood, he gathered all his willpower and stopped himself from doing it. For now, he promised himself.

“Once you live as long as I do, you learn certain things,” the elf said, clutching the heart somewhat tighter as if trying to make it stop beating against his palm. He so hated the sensation he was ready to squeeze everything out of it just to make it stop. “Some people are friends, and some are foes. You know this, Lord Nerevar,” he announced calmly “but you seem to be forgetting how to distinguish one from another...”

“Spare me, Vivec,” Anthir spat, eying the other closely and following every single move. His treasure, his well-deserved prize was in unworthy hands. “This is not what I came for and you know it.”

“I know better than I ever wished to...” the mer admitted flatly. “I know more things better than I ever wished to. For example, I know how corrupting this power is...”

The Nord paused, but only for a second. Lies, something whispered in the back of his head. All lies.

“You know it too, do you not, Lord Nerevar?” Vivec pressed on, circling around the other as close as he dared yet not far enough from him to reach the edge of the narrow pathway. “My brother and my sister. Sotha Sil and Almalexia, poor fools that did not deserve their fates... They would have never passed away in such grief if not for the powers we were not meant to posses.”

The man shook his head fiercely, making the other freeze in mid-step with his back to the edge. “Without it you would have never become what you have been,” he reminded dryly. “You are proud of your life as a god. Admit it.”

“That is beside the point,” the elf replied just as dryly, moving is other hand to the heart and clutching even tighter with both of his palms, as if truly intending on squeezing it to its ultimate death. “It began with glory and ended in grief. Not a good fate for a god... We were corrupted, one of us to the very core...”

“So what _is_ your point?!” Anthir bellowed, his deep voice echoing and trembling in the cavern.

Vivec did not even blink, yet a spark in his eye suggested he is hiding something, with all his willpower. Something very intense that threatened to overtake him. Was it fear? “Lord Nerevar...” the god began slowly, testing if he can speak clearly without betraying his feelings. “My point is that a grave mistake is being made mistake and history threatens to repeat itself.”

He took a step backwards, not bothering to gaze over his shoulders and check how far exactly he was from the edge. Anthir nearly jumped forwards when he saw the movement, intending on grabbing his precious heart before it is lost to the fiery depths. But Vivec had stopped after one single step.

“I have learned one more thing from life, my dear friend.”

He then turned towards the lava pool and brought the heart to his chest. The Nord stepped towards him, his head light and spinning. He could hardly make out shapes and colours appeared to him as but stains, all engulfed by the omnipresent, unnervingly purple mist. He staggered, reaching out for the mer, but his arm missed by what seemed to be several inches. Barely noticing the vain attempts at stopping him, Vivec said:

“There is no victory without a sacrifice.”

He jumped.

Anthir reached out with a hand, but it was nowhere near the falling mer. Everything seemed slowed – the two -coloured figure descending towards the liquid fire, the shades cast by the pool that danced on the elf's body and the suddenly very loud beating of what is left of the heart of Lorkhan. And that face... that calm expression and the soft smile suggesting only that Vivec accepted this fate and welcomed death with open arms. He clutched the heart to his chest like a most precious treasure, like something he never wished to let go of.

A high-pitched scream pierced the silence as the god sank in the liquid fire. Anthir covered his ears, furiously shaking his head. With his eyes shut he hoped he could forget the horrible image, the scene that took place before him, but it kept returning, mixing with images of Martin's sacrifice back in the Temple of the One. The two scenes flashed and flashed before the Nord's closed eyes, engraving themselves in his mind even deeper than before, painfully as if being branded in fire and death.

Because, in truth, they were.

And then Anthir understood.

“Vivec!!” he cried out, but the only reply was the echo of his own voice, his own words reverberating against the hot stone walls. The mer disappeared beneath the surface, never to emerge again.

The man that was left above his burning grave suddenly felt more alone than ever before. He staggered backwards until his back was flat against a wall, his chest heaving as he struggled for each heavy breath. His mind raced to catch up with what just happened; it all remained as but a blur, ridiculously fast images covered with purple smugs.

But the smugs slowly let go, reminding him what really took place. Vivec was right. He was right all along... Anthir bit his lips, realizing all this was his fault and his alone. He let himself be blinded by his selfish desire to ease the pain of heart, and it all brought him here... to the very – literal – heart of corruption. He let the ancient powers of Lorkhan corrupt him, take over his mind.

And Vivec realized this. He saw his own mistake being made again, and would not let history repeat itself. Here it all began for him and his fellow Living Gods, and here the history of Tribunal ended, closed the chapter of glory of Morrowind.

Anthir wiped a tear from his eye. Vivec died for him; for him alone. Died to prevent him from the same fate that consumed both Almalexia and Sotha Sil.

He died a hero.

He could not tell how long he spent just standing there and struggling with his own thoughts. He could find no strength to move, but the idleness forced him to think, and he wanted to stop. It hurt too much. Finally, with all his willpower, he made a step, and then another. Slowly, he went upwards, picking up his Trueflame on the way. The cavern once again fell silent save for the quiet, sinister bubbling of the lava. The only man left in this accursed chamber decided to leave it behind along with all the painful memories to which he just added another one, and which, just like all the previous images, would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Another man paid the ultimate price so that he could live. And again he was just an arm's length away, and Anthir did nothing to change fate.

Nothing.

Perhaps Vivec's last words were true. Each victory comes with a certain sacrifice. And this way, whether he wanted it or not, Anthir Moon-and-Star has fulfilled Azura's desire for vengeance upon the Triune...

He clenched a fist and looked up as distant, slow footsteps echoed just atop the platform to which he was climbing. He soon beheld familiar figures of those that followed him here. In all this confusion and self-hatred the Nord did not realize that the battle from which he fled has come to an end. Briefly he wished he will not have to face his soldiers after he forsook them on the battlefield. He must be looking like a coward. But what is done, is done.

“Lord Hortator!” echoed the voice of Eryn Almari. The two others that came with him started running towards the ascending Nord, but paused as he raised a hand.

“I am fine,” he said hoarsely. “Report on the battle.”

The young Indoril hesitated, but only for a moment. “The daedra have been defeated, my lord,” he said, his voice strained. “Although not without losses of our own...”

“That will be enough,” Anthir said as he headed for the spherical gate that would lead him back the way he came and out of this godforsaken mountain. Only when this thought crossed his mind did he realize how ironically literal that statement was...

“Where is Lord Vivec?” Eryn asked in a dry whisper.

His superior did not answer at once. “Died a hero,” he finally said.

None of the four uttered a sound as they walked back through the cramped, dark corridors. The silence overwhelmed them, but none dared to break it. The soldiers could not help but fear the Hortator's dark and grim expression, only strengthened by the pain the loss of their comrades caused.

Anthir soon understood. In the cavern from which Vivec pulled him laid almost three dozen corpses, daedra and Dunmer alike. The dark blue blood mixed with crimson and stained the otherwise bare stones, here and there covering up the eerie writings. It would have been a river had the heat of the omnipresent lava not dried it up. Few of the dark elves that remained behind have been pulling the bodies of their friends away from the dead daedra, intending on bringing them all back to the surface. A jolt of pain stabbed at Anthir's heart as he noticed the pale, stained face of Master Aryon of the Telvanni among other, motionless mer.

He led them to their doom, like many others before them and many others that will yet follow him. And this time he has achieved nothing but realization about his own vanity and stupidity.

Martin's voice rang in his mind. The wisdom that one has been a fool is not without value.

And no victory comes without a sacrifice.

 

The city never seemed this dark and brooding. With its unwelcoming buildings built in bare stone in the colour of sand it never felt like home to Anthir, but now it became worse than ever before. All tapestries were removed, even those that marked which canton is which, leaving Vivec City even simpler and more naked than anyone could remember. The temple complex has been adorned with black silk and so many flowers it became hard to walk among them without stepping on one. The people brought everything they had, starting with their own, traditional blossoms they gathered on funerals, through the elusive nightshades from distant Cyrodiil to black roses, impossible to obtain in these parts. And yet they managed to bring them to the feet of the statue of their recently deceased god-king Vivec, the stone sculpture that was now obscured by a half-transparent black veil.

Everyone was now out on the stairs and paths before the temple and the neighbouring cantons. Many citizens were already in tears; others held bouquets or flickering candles.

Anthir held his breath. What was he to say? How was he to explain this? Dressed in his light robe that marked him as his Hortator and the flaming sword at his side, he stepped to the front of Vivec's very palace. From the top of the broad staircase he could see that somewhere among these gathered elves was their king, young Helseth of the Hlaalu, in a lavish black outfit and surrounded by his private, royal guards.

The Nord took a deep breath. “People of this city,” he began on top of his voice, hoping that those in the far back can hear him. “This is a dark day for us all. True, we have succeeded in our battle against the daedra, securing our peace... but at what cost?”

He raised his eyes to the towering statue that was now hidden in black, the statue that always seemed to look down on him with contempt and smugness not even the Living God himself could possibly harbour.

“We have lost many down in those accursed caverns,” Anthir went on, his voice strained in an attempt to cover his nervousness... among other feelings, many of which he could not even name at that time. Taking a deep breath to try and compose himself, and failing miserably, he continued: “All brave and valiant... Among them was Master Aryon of Telvanni, my good friend and trusted advisor. His every word was wisdom, and his every deed was goodness for our people.”

He paused again, blinking his eyes briefly as he raised them to the clear sky, perhaps in a rather vain attempt to shake away a tear or two. “Death reaps regardless of who we are in this life. But none of those that fell in this battle shall be forgotten. We will remember them all as those who sacrificed themselves so that we may live.”

He blinked again as some of the gathered people raised whatever they were holding above their heads, creating an irregular pattern of flowers and silently flickering candles. The view held some strange, grim beauty one finds only when one seeks to ease pain and sorrow. For a moment there, Anthir wondered what is causing his pain. Was it the fact that he led so many to their deaths, and it all proved in vain? Or was it because he was so blind it took the death of a god for him to understand?

Or, what he hoped was the reason, the fact that all his hopes of reviving his beloved died along with all those men?

“But no one shall be missed as much as he,” Anthir called out, looking up to the veiled statue. “Vivec has left us. The loss of his love and protection marks a dark time in the history of our land...” He paused. He would be damned if he truly believed his own words, but sometimes you just had to tell the people what they wanted to hear. “But he has died a hero. Only thanks to him I am now standing before you. He chose his fate, and I can only hope I will not make his spirit regret this choice. No victory comes without a sacrifice. His sacrifice has been my victory, and from now on I shall live out every moment of my life knowing I owe it to him.”

More hands rose into the air and the entire pattern of flowers and candles now trembled along with the weak arms of people that held them. They wept, mourning, some of them still not understanding how this could happen. Gods were supposed to be there to protect and guide you. Gods do not die.

Anthir closed his eyes for a brief moment. “My prayers are with him. No words can express how grateful I am that he has opened my eyes and blessed me with a second chance.”

Then he knelt, his head held low; the long brown locks fell to the sides of his face, obscuring it from view, for which he was grateful. Not even the guards at his side could see the sudden tears. “Thank you, Vivec! Thank you!”


	17. Turn the Page

Anthir sat alone in the chamber they have assigned him when he arrived, not long ago, but seemingly a whole eternity before. It hurt to say the words he forced himself to utter at the symbolic funeral. It really did. Who would ever expect _the_ Vivec to give his life for him, a man that despised him and was born only to bring his end?

And, all in all, indirectly he did. His stubbornness and selfish, blind desires brought the doom of the last Living God.

Instead of bringing a man back, he condemned so many to death.

He leaned on the desk, supporting himself on both arms, his hands cupping his head as he resisted the urge to smash the first thing he could. The desk seemed the most likely victim if he gave in, but one thing kept him from doing so. In front of him, on the very wooden desk, laid the two items that had the most significance in his previous life in Morrowind. Firstly, the magical star with many thin arms which seemed like brass, but was made of something entirely different and imbued with the blood, the very essence, of a Daedric Prince. The Star of the one they called the Queen of Dusk and Dawn, the Mother of the Rose, Azura. Right next to it laid the small white band carved with a moon and a star, the symbol of the great hero and ideal leader, Nerevar Indoril. Anthir's eyes wandered from one to the other wearily, his head not rising from his tired arms even an inch.

It happened. Just like Azura had promised. The Tribunal were dead, all three of them gone. And even though only one died literally by Anthir's hand, it mattered little. Ends justify the means, do they not? So if they all perished and he was the one to give the very final blow, it worked. He has fulfilled his destiny, the purpose for which he was born.

Stifling a sob, the Nord sent one last gaze upon the metal star and then raised his eyes as if expecting to see anything on the bare, sand-coloured ceiling. “I hope you're happy now,” he said in a low, strained voice. “They're gone. All three of them. That's what you wanted, isn't it?”

He shook his head when the ceiling did not reply to those words. He lowered his arms and rested them in front of himself, his hands entwined with one another. “I have done what you wanted me to,” he said to no one and nothing in particular, his voice dropping to a level that neared a whisper. “Can I have some peace now? Some life of my own?”

Again the sole response he had was silence, broken only by his own heavy breaths. What was he to do now? What would become of this land?

The Nord rose from his seat, glad to tear his weary eyes away from the items that laid upon the desk, and approached a window. The day was bright and cloudless, with undisturbed serenity filling the air. Oblivious to the deaths of all those mer than have fallen for his foolish cause back at Red Mountain. The window was very narrow; in truth, its existence was a surprise in itself, as it seemed that the Dunmer did not approve of windows as such. But this one, it was definitely real and opened up onto the calm, endless sea. Anthir crossed his arms on his chest, taking a deep breath and releasing it along with much of his tension. The view calmed him.

Somewhere there, across the blue water, stood the mysterious dragon of Ebonheart. Vivec did mention that he intended to leave his kingdom, his beloved land, in the hands of the great Nine Divines, with whom he was meant to be competing. It made little sense, but now Anthir felt like he begins to understand. Perhaps the ebony guardian of Ebonheart was indeed a symbol of the greater dragon, the Divine Akatosh. Perhaps it all was but single pieces of a greater puzzle, a picture that finally fit in its frame. Either way, the protection and well-being of Morrowind now fell to that very dragon, whoever he was.

The Nord bit his lower lip, the memories of the ebony dragon reminding him of the other, the one he thought to have been the original. The younger, yet older stone statue of the One that now stood proud and pained in his very temple, in the heart of this great Tamrielic Empire. Of Martin Septim, last of Akatosh's chosen blood, who has paid the ultimate price for the safety of his lands. As has been foreseen.

But now there is no Septim, and the Empire is left with no Emperor, no Amulet...

Anthir gripped the satchel that dangled softly against his thigh. The sharp edges of the red shard, the only thing that remained of the Third Era's greatest ruler, stung his fingers to reassure him it was still there. But it offered no comfort, only the pain of a broken vow.

“Oh, Martin...” the man whispered to himself and to the ocean, hoping that somehow the spirit of his beloved can hear him. “I'm so sorry... I failed you...”

He turned away from the window the moment those words left his mouth, hating himself and everything around him. A Blade must never fail the Emperor. And yet he did.

But wait... He paused, and then untied the satchel quickly as if a life depended on it. The contents he took with utmost respect and care, like something sacred. There was the shard of the Amulet of Kings, a red crystal that bled out when its last heir sacrificed his life; there was Anthir's chamber key he put there only so that he would not loose it; and, right with them, was a folded piece of parchment he knew he would need, and perhaps now was that time.

Someone knocked at the door and the Nord stuffed the items back into the satchel. “Come in,” he called as he tied it tightly.

Crassius Curio saw him put the sacred ring, the Moon-and-Star, on his finger as he entered. “Lord Hortator,” he bowed deeply, glad that again he restrained himself from calling him anything similar to 'pumpkin'.

“Councilor Curio,” Anthir nodded politely, not in the mood for seeing anyone, but since he had to, he was glad it proved to be a friendly face. “What brings you here?”

“My lord, I realize this may not be the best of moments,” the Imperial began carefully, looking at his superior's weary face and realizing he might get it if he annoys him further. “But His Majesty king Hlaalu Helseth has requested that you speak to him as soon as is possible.”

The Nord narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. “Very well, I will visit him in his chambers once... once I am done with a few matters here. Thank you, Councilor, but please leave me be.”

Without another word, Curio bowed deeply and withdrew through the wooden door, closing them behind himself. Anthir could only thank him for not asking questions about the Star that still laid upon the table, and the satchel right next to it that was tied tightly yet clearly in a hurry, different to when the Nord carried it by his side.

He listened to the footsteps dying outside and undid the ties once more to behold the little treasures he kept hidden inside. He dug up the parchment and paused with it in hand, looking sadly at the broken crystal. Blinking his eyes to fight back a tear, he put the satchel back on the table and focused on the item he was holding.

Anthir unfolded it and carefully eyed the notes he made himself. A few days before he copied an entire page from a certain book he came across in Vivec's private library, and this very parchment, this innocent note, could prove to be the key to restoring the rightful heir to the throne of Tamriel.

The Dragonthrone once again occupied by a true Dragonborn... this was the best he could do for Martin. For his memory.

The parchment in his hand was covered in names – names of those that received the throne from Akatosh himself, blessed with his powers, starting from the legendary hero Tiber Septim and all the way to Uriel VII and his three sons, although so many wondered if they were not sons of Jagar Tharn, born during his usurpation of the Dragonthrone. But it mattered little, as all of them, father and sons, were slain. Martin, of course, was not among his true family, and Anthir could not help but fight back more tears that came over the unfairness of the priest's life and the emptiness in his own heart.

But what is done, is done. There was one more thing that could help.

Uriel VII, Sithis have mercy over his soul, had a sister. It was not widely known, purely because people focused on their Emperor more than his lowly siblings, but it was no secret either. According to this chart she was married to a man to whom she later gave a son. And this son Anthir knew well.

It all made sense why he did not realize this before. This man, who seemed to be the last of the Dragon Blood, did not have the same name as his Imperial uncle, carrying that of his father instead. But with this chart, this piece of notes, Anthir could prove that there still is a Septim in this world that can, and should, take the throne back from Ocato.

The Nord stared at the name written before him in black. One he wrote himself, with his own hand. And even though he was well aware what it meant, he could not help his own amazement.

Caius Cosades.

 

As far as royal chambers go, these were very humble. True, there were tapestries and a carpet and ornate furniture and even a beautiful chandelier, but for the king himself, this still seemed little. Although, when one considered the general plain design of the Dunmer, even those of higher status, this ceased to mean anything. Their current occupier, Hlaalu Helseth, paced back and forth around a table casually, as if dictating something to a scribe that was not there through lips that were not moving. The cloak of his long crimson robe flowed behind him, even lazier than he was, like a loyal servant.

A knock on the door made the ruler stop and utter a short “enter”. He saw exactly the face he expected to, the familiar sharp features surrounded by the messy brown hair of a tall Nord.

Helseth smiled slightly and nodded his head in a polite welcoming. “Lord Hortator, I am glad you came,” he said.

Anthir returned the nod, but not the smile. “Your Majesty,” he said. “I believe you summoned me?”

“So I have,” the king admitted and gestured towards an ornate chair of dark wood. “Please, have a seat.”

The Nord in front of him shook his head slightly. “Thank you, Your Highness, but I rather stand.”

“Very well,” the elf agreed with little hesitation. He moved to a neatly carved cabinet on which a bottle and two cups with the Hlaalu crest upon them already stood. “You are probably wondering why I summoned you,” he said as he poured liquid from the bottle to each of the cups.

_Not necessarily_ , the Nord thought and shook his head as he was offered a drink. Helseth set the unwanted liquid on the table, his face as blank as ever, and sipped his own. Anthir could only stare at him, not knowing what to say. There were many things on his mind, but none being something he wanted to word, not here and not now.

Seeing as the other was not going to engage In any conversation, the mer sighed through his nose and went on. “There is something you and I need to speak about, Lord Hortator.” With a certain, subtle accent on the last word, he resumed his pacing around the room, brushing against Anthir's shoulder as he went past and around the wooden table.

“Is there, Your Majesty?” the Nord asked, staring right ahead of himself, unwilling to look at the ruler, and especially not in his eyes.

“Indeed there is,” Helseth admitted, sipping his drink again. “The land mourns thrice, for with the death of Vivec came the ultimate end of the Triune.”

_I do not see you grieving_ , the man thought, but bit his tongue.

The elf kept pacing, yet slightly increasing speed. He put his free hand behind his back, hiding it under the flowing cape. The Nord stood there tall, merely an obstacle in his way that can be easily overcome.

“The balance of our lands has been disturbed,” Helseth said somewhat hesitantly.

“Forgive me, Your Majesty,” Anthir decided to reply, slowly moving his gaze to the elf, who did not pause in his steps, yet still avoiding the blood-red eyes. “But has the balance not been disrupted years ago, when the prophecy was fulfilled?”

The king allowed himself a small grin under the moustache. “Indeed it has,” he said. “But your arrival and rising as Nerevar have not changed much in the long run.”

The man bit his tongue before he could protest out loud. Carefully choosing his words, he remarked: “I have ridden the Tribunal of their power. I have slain Almalexia. Does that change nothing?”

Helseth shook his head, his cloak flapping as it brushed the Nord's legs on its way past. The elf sipped his liquor again, making his chambers drown in silence once more. “Saviour of this land ought to know more, Lord Hortator,” he finally said with absolutely no sarcasm in his tone. “Out of the three, only Vivec, may he rest in peace, was truly influential in Morrowind.”

“I'm beginning to see where this is going...” Anthir cut in carefully, but the other ignored him, his increasingly sure steps now echoing in the stone and otherwise silent chamber.

“Our people could not believe in the death of their beloved Almalexia,” the ruler said, oblivious to any other spoken words. “They have not until long after you were gone from the kingdom. The realization came slowly, and they accepted it no sooner than a year before the Crisis.”

Anthir did not respond. Of course the people would refuse to believe in the death of a god, let alone one that has been there to protect them since the First Era and days of Emperor Gorieus and king Wulfharth of Skyrim. But that also meant that they were now well aware that they are left with no Living God and no Akulakhan to give them another.

They were left with the possibility of accepting the Nine, fulfilling Vivec's final wish. Perhaps the temple of Akatosh in Kragenmoor was only the first of many the Dunmer would raise with their own hand, giving themselves o the Divines and the One they have witnessed to have saved all of Tamriel.

Or, on the other hand, they were still left with the Moon-and-Star, the living saint.

Anthir shook his head ever so slightly, realizing Helseth has come to a halt and was now watching him closely, his expression as blank as ever.

“Is everything alright, Lord Hortator?” he asked.

“Yes,” the Nord replied simply. “Forgive me, my mind... wandered off.”

“There is no need to apologize,” the ruler said, setting his now nearly empty cup on the table next to the other, untouched. “I realize these are hard times for us all.”

_Except you, perhaps_ , the man thought. Aloud, he said: “So the death of Vivec has disturbed the balance of Morrowind.”

Helseth nodded. “Indeed,” he agreed. “Without a Living God, our people have only the two of us to look up to.”

Anthir could not hold a blink. “So this is what it was all about, eh? One of your rivals is gone, and only I am left on your way to being the sole ruler here.”

The mer laughed at that. No, not laughed – chuckled, but said chuckle was derived of all humour, making it sound bitter and even sinister. The only confirmation the other needed.

“Please, Lord Hortator, let us not get ridiculous,” Helseth said, a small smirk appearing on his face. “Morrowind has been living thanks to harmony between faith and monarchy. I suppose we can safely assume that you now represent the Temple.”

Anthir clenched his fists, narrowing his eyes slightly. For the first time since he entered these chambers did he dare to look the elf in those deep, red eyes. “You know nothing of what I represent,” he said in a low, growling tone.

The Dunmer stared back at him, unimpressed. “Tell me then, Lord Hortator.”

The Nord did not reply at once. There were so many things he could say, so many he wanted to, but could not. He had to admit the king that stood proudly before him was absolutely right – his return to these lands brought ruin to the harmony its people knew for eras, and in a way it was now his responsibility to set things right.

Or at least as far from wrong as possible.

But what was he to do? Of one thing he was certain – he would not stay as a placeholder for a new God or a Vivec Incarnate. This much he has decided long ago. In a way, Helseth has won this battle long before anyone saw it coming, but how was Anthir to admit his defeat?

And, if asked, how was he to word the reasons for his sudden return?

Finally, he spoke: “I have names, Your Majesty, each and every one a banner of my allegiances. All except one... the Moon-and-Star.”

He could never imagine how satisfying it is to actually see Helseth raise a brow.

“I wish to have nothing to do with Azura,” Anthir explained simply, his voice not at all as firm as the words it pronounced. “Nor the Tribunal Temple.”

The mer shook his head slowly, but from his blank expression it was clear that it is not a motion of denial. “Who do you serve then?” he dared ask.

Again the reply did not come at once. “The true heirs,” the Nord finally declared. “The Dragonborn.”

Helseth chuckled once more, bringing a hand to his mouth. “That was very bold, Lord Hortator,” he admitted. “Commendably so. I, as a Hlaalu, am more than glad to hear that. Our friendship with the Empire-”

“Spare me,” the man cut in sharply, raising a hand. “I know what you want, and you shall get it.”

“My Lord?”

The Nord slowly withdrew towards the wooden door, turning his back at the elf. “I am leaving this land,” he announced. “No longer shall the Triune, nor any of their saints, rule Morrowind.”

Helseth held a grin, managing to keep his dark face blank. He gave a small nod, which the other could not see. “I honour your decision,” he said politely.

“I leave our people in your hands,” Anthir went on as if uninterrupted. “And in the hands of the Nine. So Vivec willed, and so it shall be.”

He then opened the door and took half a step outside. “I doubt we shall meet again. Farewell, Helseth of Morrowind.”

 

The chilly mountain winds proved to be very refreshing and calming. Perhaps the Valus Mountains were not the highest out there, far inferior to those of Skyrim or even the infamous Red Mountain itself, but they were by no means less beautiful than the lands of the north. Here, in this narrow pass, the harsh badlands of Morrowind met the serene forests of Cyrodiil. Wildlife turned from dark, dull brown to lively shades of green as the air became light and clear. Up above the peaks were all covered with a cape of snow which shone and glimmered in the bright sun, no longer disturbed by swamp gas and haze.

Anthir felt as if he was going home. Even despite his wishes to see Skyrim, seek his roots, something kept calling him back to Cyrodiil. For the past few months he could not find himself a place. And even though Morrowind is where it all began, where he found out whom he really is and his name spread across the land, he once again felt alien there.

For how can one feel in a place marked by hatred confusion and death? Saviour of the Dunmer, the Chimeri hero – perhaps, but a daedric puppet nonetheless. They all wished only to use him – Azura, the Almsivi – and they all paid the ultimate price, leaving him in the very same spot in which he started. There was nothing that would keep him here, nothing to make Morrowind feel like home.

Unlike Cyrodiil. There Anthir has found much more than the harsh dark elven lands could ever offer. Firstly there was the beauty, beauty that men seemed to appreciate much more than Dunmer. Green forests with clear ponds and rivers under the pure skies, animals which did not wish to tear out your heart on sight and air that was actually breathable.

But there was far more to the Imperial Province than met the eye. Here Anthir has found something he was seeking for far too long – a place for himself. First there were the thieves, who offered a helping hand when he began on his own, very much unlike what happened in Morrowind. The Grey Fox protected him and has soon become a close, trusted friend. Anthir could not hold a grin. Who would suspect that one's story could be brought to a happy end through crime? And not just any crime – the theft of the era. He accomplished the impossible.

He became someone.

Then came Sithis.

The Nord was never a stranger to killing, seeing as his path to fulfill the Nerevarine prophecies was marked by death. But – just like everyone else – he feared the Morag Tong, and the idea of worshipping Vivec just to stay legal sickened him.

But those that came to visit him on that fateful night did not care about law. The Dark Brotherhood welcomed him, and helped him understand that the Dread Father is not a god – he is far beyond gods. One who has seen divine beings with his own eyes may either believe in what he saw or doubt his faith – how can you believe in someone you know is there? Anthir could no longer worship a god. But Sithis is not a god.

Thanks to the dark, lawless part of the society Anthir finally had a place to call home. The beggars, the thieves and the assassins became his family, and his name was upon their lips. Not because of a goddamn prophecy he had no wish to fulfill, but thanks to his own achievements. He was someone because he earned it.

And then, finally, came the final thing he needed.

Oblivion opened its marbe jaws.

One failed attempt at a contract for the Dark Brotherhood was enough to make him the key to stopping Dagon's invasion. No, that is wrong – the tool. The hand that guarded the king. Martin was the key.

Anthir clutched the reigns of his steed a bit harder. During the great crisis he has found love and was foolish enough never to admit it. Now it was too late. Martin was gone. Literally carved in stone.

How could one man fail so many? The Nord could have saved them, but did not. His own mother, Lucien, Jauffre, Martin, Aryon, even Vivec. Some of those deaths were his fault. Funny how a murderer can grieve...

The hopes of bringing at least one of them back resulted in even more blood and tears. A selfish desire turned the world upside down. Well, perhaps that is a bit exaggerated...

But it will. A new order is being established in Morrowind, a seed planted four hundred years ago now grows. In a way, Anthir has accomplished what Tiber Septim could not, although by other means than he would wish. And soon his selfish desire might set one thing right – bring a rightful heir to the throne to the great Tamrielic Empire.

Caius Cosades...

There may yet be a Dragonborn.

Also, after the tragic and heroic death of Vivec, Anthir understood some things. He has many names, and even though not all represent his allegiances, each and every one marks who he is. There was no more denying that he was born only for Azura's personal revenge. Whether he likes it or not, those years are a very important chapter in his life's story. A big one, yes, but only one. Nerevar, Moon-and-Star, Hortator – these names were but titles of said chapter which was now closed. Anthir has turned the page.

And yet he was still wearing the small white ring.

He understood that life must go on. His heart still aches after the loss of his dear Martin, but he now knows that it must be so. So it has been written in the Elder Scrolls. The last pure Septim still watches over his Empire, safeguarding it as its Divine, as the One.

Anthir smiled to himself. It was true what they said – some gods were real. And Martin ascended to be one of them. He was watching over the Nord, he had to be, even now, as he left the chilly pass that cut through the Valus Mountains and emerged in Nibenay. Perhaps Martin knew how the Nord felt.

In time Anthir's heart will calm down and the pain will cease. Maybe then someone will fill that special place that is now all but bleeding. But not yet. He is not ready for it yet.

For now there was a life to return to. There were beggars to feed and whispers of death to hear. Being someone was hard work and would surely keep him busy. And in his spare time Anthir could always visit the Temple of the One and see Martin, for he was still there.

And always would be.

A chapter has been closed. The whole world will now change, and no one knew what was – or would be – written on the next page, the next Elder Scroll.

They will find out, in time. Right now it mattered now.

Anthir was headed home.


End file.
